


apaixonar

by thefangirlofhp



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azriel is here for a ride and boy is it an unsafe rollercoaster, Book 4 made some suggestions that I am ignoring, Detective Azriel, Detectives, District Attorney Rhysand, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Elain Archeron/Azriel Fluff, Elain Archeron/Azriel Pregnancy, Elain is whopped for our tattooed bat, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff, Gangsters, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Suriel, OR IS THERE, Organized Crime, Teacher Elain, The Author Regrets Nothing, Violence, muahaha, seriously i looked at canon once and chuckled, single parent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 106,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefangirlofhp/pseuds/thefangirlofhp
Summary: The Heptad is a far-reaching, widespread family of seven gangs sworn together under The King. There isn’t a pie of organised crime their fingers aren’t in; the state of Velaris -although their base- is not the only state they rule. From the underground to the highest ranking officials in the governments, nearly every crime can be traced back to them: a law enforcer needs only to have the nerve, the influence and a death wish.Azriel Bougainvillea has all three.Dubbed a madman by most of his co-workers, a suicidal bastard by his partners, Azriel tends to take the Heptad personally. And though putting the direct perpetrators of the crimes behind bars closes the case, Azriel is not satisfied. They need to uproot the seven gangs and tumble the world around The King’s ears if they are to solve the problem of crime. A lovely solution and an impossible dream, but the Detectives in the Velaris City Police are a headstrong folk with their own bone to pick with the Heptad and some may even make a dent in the its impenetrable armor.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Elain Archeron/Graysen, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 56
Kudos: 103





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note about the rating of the story: it's rated Teen because of the general harmless content; after all, in the end, this is a story about Azriel and Elain falling in love while taking care of a two year old along with all the domestic fluff that comes with it. The rating may change for each chapter, however, seeing as Azriel is a pottymouth and swears a lot internally and externally to express that which can't be said as eloquently as a swear word. 
> 
> A few chapters include violence and torture, especially in regards to Azriel who not only dishes it out but also receives it, so I will put a note before each chapter that has triggering topics. Swearing, however, I won't censor. It's part of Azriel's character and if I have to censor that, I'll have to censor the whole story- does this qualify it to be rated as Mature? I don't know, really. I'd love some help in this. I might change it to a mature rating afterall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **violence included at the end of the chapter.

Azriel has two problems: Weekend shifts and cat food. 

He'd been the detective on call this weekend for the third time in a row now, At this point, he's sure Helion is tired of seeing him. But it's not his fault; Azriel's turn had been three weeks ago, but then Varian's wife went into labour last week and he couldn't take the shift so Azriel covered for him, and now he's covering for Nuala. Oh the plans he has for the upcoming weekend- he's going to go absolutely bonkers: mess up his sleep schedule, read his copy of The Davinci Code he picked up a month ago, rebuild the airplane Lego set he has for the fourth time, go out for drinks with Cassian. Maybe if he's feeling particularly bold after some mind-nourishing from Brown he'll call Mor and finally muster the courage to ask her out for dinner. 

Though, having a serial killing this weekend put a damper of sorts on the mood. 

Azriel stands hands in his pockets, surveying the crime scene in the basement. The press will go rogue over this one: double teenage girl kidnap and murder. Eventually having seen as many cases as he has, it’s a necessity to develop a tough hide for these sort of cases, let nothing through the armor; but sometimes a few slip in, like water dripping from cupped hands, and stick with him until his nightmares are flashes of dead people and haunting chilling declarations from the culprits upon capture “And I’d do it all again”. This will be one of those cases, that even long after he has identified and arrested the culprit, the rubble that comes from this earthquake will remain, untouched and foreboding. 

The girls bodies are sprawled on the floor, the older of the pair bent at an odd angle that would be physically unrecommended for the living in the corner of the old basement. They share similar expressions of horror tattooed on their young decaying faces, their lifeless eyes boring up at the ceiling, last seeing their killer. He swallows thickly, turning his gaze away and studying the room while the team does their job of stabilising the crime scene. Azriel regards the splattered blood on the walls and floor, making a mental note to bring in Delilah to mark every spot of blood. 

The girls obviously put up a fight for a long while, and were beaten for it. Mike, the forensic doctor, grunts something about the excessive bruises on their bodies. Azriel rakes a scarred hand through his hair, crouching down to study the marks on the floor: he can point out signs of the outmatched struggle they might have put up, the stains of the killer's boots, the dents in the wall and the ripped parts of the wall that he wagers are by one of the girl's nails. He’s careful where to stand on the hardwood floor, his shoes are covered with plastic bags as everyone else. Two of the forensics team are fixing the fallen shelves that block the rest of the basement, the crime scene photographer clicking his camera away, leaving no spot undocumented. The heavy paint fumes from the knocked over cans of paint attack Azriel’s nose and lungs, going directly to his brain and burning his eyes. He takes notice of the new paint, looking around the walls and bets quietly that if he has someone look at the coating, it’ll be fresh. A week, to be exact. 

He wishes it's a different case altogether, but his intuition screams at him that he knows otherwise and that he knows these are more unfortunate victims of Archie Macmillan.

Azriel's been after him for the better part of six months. Helion welcomed him back to the agency with that unsolved case, told him if he had anyone with the nack for serial killers it was Azriel and that solving this one will do wonders to Azriel's reputation and mood. So far, the only thing it's done is join the long list of things that keep him up at night. 

Archie Macmillan, a man Azriel's identified his name only yesterday, in true serial killing fashion, has his own style. People between the ages of twelve and nineteen are far from being safe from his attention. He's a genius, and not in the nice way: in the way that Azriel has had to pick himself up and beat himself down to think ahead of Macmillan, examine every second of CCTV footage, take everything in a crime scene to the labs, withhold the victim's bodies from their families to look at them himself, drive himself up the wall thinking. Macmillan snatches his victims in broad daylight and from their beds, lures them from their safe places, kidnaps them for a duration of three days and then kills them, dumps their bodies in places that are not where he did it, wipes the bodies clean in a way that leaves no room for identification of the criminal and then moves on to his next victim. 

Originally, his style is clever enough that all his previous victims were not tied together; he's even committed some in a few states that Azriel and Helion pulled many strings to get the cases from. It was only three weeks back into service that Azriel, exhausted and at his desk, found something to connect them together and suddenly it was easier- easier because a fight with a man is either won or lost but a fight with the general evil of the world is one Azriel is helpless against, no matter how many crusades he leads against it. 

"It's him," Mike murmurs in the hushed atmosphere of the crime scene build of camera clicks, the clink of instruments, the roll of the bright yellow tape, the murmurs of the CSI team. Azriel looks down at the girl's unblinking eyes, feels her gaze boring into her, accusing him of not being smart enough. 

"He messed this one up," notes Azriel, looking away at anything that was not once alive. "This is where he did it."

"He didn't move them. Why?" 

"The neighbours heard." It is a pity they only heard suspicious sounds tonight and not earlier ago. The elderly woman who lived next door and had called the cops when she discovered the bodies, was outside in an ambulance car, weeping and being calmed down. “He bolted before he had the chance to clean up.”

"What have you got for me?" He asks Mike. 

He’s ignored, the usual you'll read it in my report hanging unspoken between them. Azriel turns on his heel, climbs the creaky wooden stairs of the basement. Once he's outside, he gasps in a fresh inhale of the cold October air that clears out the fumes and bacteria feeding on dead corpses from his nose and lungs. It whips lightly against his face, tousles his hair and dries his eyes. He hadn't realised his hands were shaking until he looked at them slightly trembling in the dark. He clenches them into fists- God, he'll have to talk to the girls' parents when they identify them. Will they scream at him for not protecting their babies and not catching their killer? Or will they fall into his arms sobbing? 

The black woman in the ambulance has a blanket around her shoulders and a tissue clenched in her hand. She occasionally hiccups as he makes his way over to her, and looks up at him eagerly when he stops before her. He pulls on the warmest sympathetic expression he can muster now. 

"I'm Detective Azriel Bougainvillea, ma'am. Mind if I talk to you?" 

__________________________________

The convenience store is one he suspects may have the food he needs for Rebel, but he isn't hopeful. 7 Eleven's neon sign glows brightly in the night, bringing with it some memories he'd rather lose as he walks in, the sun beginning to rise behind him into the sky. It smells of opened body spray and detergent. Usually he’s well stocked with cat food but recently his mind’s been elsewhere, preoccupied with his work to pay proper attention to her; though his precious furball got the attention she wanted from him whenever she wishes (demanded it, really), he hasn’t been the most attentive to her and missed one of her appointments at the vet. He’ll have to take her very soon, ease his guilt a little.

A quick sweep around the store confirms his dread of no food for his one-year-old cat. Instead, he grabs a bar of chocolate and a water bottle that he takes to the counter. The sleep-deprived cashier there, genetically closer to a moth Azriel believes, takes ages, for reasons beyond him. Despite himself, just as he hands him the money he asks if they have any cat food. 

They do, apparently. When Azriel tells him that he looked, the lanky teenager shuffles like an old man to an aisle and points at a bright red bag. 

"That's pretzels, man," Azriel tells him. The boy blinks -he's barely sixteen- says 'oh' and shuffles to a different aisle, then points at another red bag. Facepalming, Azriel sighs when he follows. 

"Detergent. I need cat food."

"Thought you said clothes food," the sleep-deprived boy mumbles and squint-eyed shuffles two steps and points at a package on the shelves. 

"Why would I-? Forget it," Azriel grabs the packet with a cat's picture printed on it and reads the label. He's never heard of it, but he supposes that beggars most certainly cannot, in his case, be choosers. 

"Um excuse me," someone from another aisle walks towards them. Middle height, unassuming appearance, easy smile. Azriel already despises him. "Are you one of the cops from the crime down the street?"

Azriel frowns at him, his eyebrows bunching together in a deep scowl. "How's that any of your business?" His tone comes off more aggressive and crude than planned.

The man holds up two hands, smiling nervously behind his thick horn-rim glasses. "I saw you at the house a few minutes ago. I- I just wanted to ask if you have a clue behind who the criminal is?"

"You're a journalist, aren't you?" 

The man stutters. Azriel shoulders roughly past him, slamming the money onto the counter and exiting the store. Fucking journalists and his own incompetence to catch Macmillan, he's not in the mood for anything. He can barely keep himself collected; his talk with the old lady had confirmed some of his fears, erased any hope of this killing being untied to Macmillan. 

He halts in the parking lot, burying his face in his free hand; snapping at people whomever they may be for asking normal questions of curiosity and concern is not a part of who he is, and nor is being an asshole. Just because he is an incompetent detective in this so far doesn't mean a journalist asking questions to do his own job deserves Azriel's bullshit. He was raised better.

Turning on his heel, he takes a step back towards the door of the store before his mind latches onto something the journalist said. 

No, _asked_. He hadn't asked about the girls or their progress in solving the crime. He'd asked about the criminal. No human sympathy or pity.

Azriel stilled, observing the man and the teenager through the doors. He's grappling at straws, he knows, but the more he thinks about it the more he finds everything convenient. What's a journalist like him doing up this late, all dressed and no signs of sleep on him? So close to the crime scene? 

_Coincidence,_ breathes the wisps of wind that breezes past his ear. 

_You're a Detective now, Azriel. Nothing is a coincidence_ , Helion had said when he dropped the uniform. 

The man is all smiles and friendly laughs with the delirious teenager packaging his items- rope and heavy-duty duct tape. Warm eyes, bright smile, friendly body posture. It sounds alarms in Azriel's head. 

Why? somewhere his ignored logical mind yells at him as he stands frozen. Why? Why? Why? 

He stands still, watching the journalist smile one last time before exiting the convenience store. He halts when he sees Azriel observing him, and raises a peaceful hand in the air, palm facing forward. Azriel steps up to him, giving him a small smile. 

"I'm sorry for being an asshole," he says apologetically. "It's not been my day today." 

"That's all right. I guessed you'd be stressed out enough as it is with the serial killings over the months as it is." 

His eyes are pale, protruding from his face. He seems Azriel's age, perhaps older: now that he's close and looking, Azriel takes notice of his clean-shaven appearance, meticulous grooming, clean hands and clipped nails and clear glasses. Azriel pauses, eyes flickering between the journalist's. 

"What agency do you work for?"

"The River," he replies immediately. 

"I didn't know The River was working on a piece about these cases," Azriel tilts his head to the side. "You see, my friend's a senior editor there. She didn't mention anything." 

"Morrigan Garcia, I know," the man grins. "I've been following this case since the start. Quite interesting the work you've been doing, Detective. You're smart but slower than the criminal. It took you this long to put a name on him?" 

Azriel stills, hands in his pocket. "One thing interests me," he speaks slowly, scratches his top lip and then covers his mouth when he yawns, not breaking eye contact with the man, then slides his hand back in his pocket. "What are you after in the story?"

"The whole story, of course," replies the man, an intense stare directed at Azriel, who yawns again. 

"Hmm, you'll have to excuse me, most reporters have a moral drive to make sure the police are catching the perpetrator and to uncover the truth." 

"That of course. But I never can resist the curiosity put at ease with a plot resolved."

"You asked about the criminal though," Azriel looks away, pretending to think as he furrows his brow. "Your connections are so well that you know everything about my case? A case which I've been keeping safely guarded." 

The man smiles, a truer form than the friendly mirage. He reminds Azriel of the sharks he'd see at the aquarium when he was a kid. "I have my informants."

"Of course," Azriel nods. "I'm not an idealist enough to think the police doesn't have its moles. Tell me though, you ask about the criminal, do you have your suspects, since you've been following this case closely, and -obviously- are better at my job than I am?"

The man remains silent, eyes flickering hungrily between Azriel's. 

"Let me tell you something, Macmillan," softly Azriel speaks, holding his gaze. "It was a mistake lingering around."

Macmillan shoves Azriel in the chest and runs, dropping his bag. Doing the same, Azriel bolts after him. Their feet slap against the pavement in the quiet night. The orange streetlights provide little to see, but Azriel's eyes are fixed on Macmillan's figure. The cold wind shrieks sharply in his ear as he leaps over tipped trash cans and over a spiked railing that punctures his palm. Gifted with the delay on Azriel's behalf, Macmillan skids, slowing his speed as he turns a sharp corner to a subway entrance and disappears down the stairs. 

Panting, Azriel grasps the railing with bloody hands, putting all his weight into his arms as he pushes himself off the floor and jumps. He's suspended for a few seconds in midair as he falls, landing on his feet at the stairs. Five stairs away, Macmillan jumps multiple steps at a time. Azriel leaps off them, knocking Macmillan into the filthy grimy floor of the subway. 

Macmillan wrestles him, a wild cat cornered, his slight build doing poorly in comparison to Azriel's. The detective thinks of the girls that died tonight -last night, technically- because of this asshole, and how he'd used their physical weakness to his favour- it fuels his muscles, gives his fist a force that meets with Macmillan's face. The killer rolls with him, once at the top and next below. He claws at Azriel's face and neck, digging the clean-cut nails into his flesh. Macmillan winds his fist back before driving it into Azriel's shoulder, followed by another that knocks the air from his chest, then one to his temple, and another to his shoulder. There is a sickening crack and vibration in his left shoulder.

Azriel's fist once again finds his face with a vengeance, hearing a satisfying crack that might be the sound of a dislocated or fractured jaw. In sync, a click resonates and the next thing Azriel knows, a hot weight is lodged in his battered shoulder. Macmillan's mouth drips blood as they heave for breath, his palm is gripping Azriel's shoulder and a wide blade slides out of his shoulder when he releases him. 

The detective elbows him, harsh and unforgiving and angry for the kids who've perished by this man's blade; he surges up, grabbing Macmillan's two wrists and with a final surge of force, twists them in their joints. They pop under his squeezing palms, followed by the killer's roar like that of a wounded animal. Azriel flips him over, knocking his head into the ground. They're just at the edge of the empty train tracks. Macmillan pants sharply, face bloodied and intelligence slowly leaving his eyes. Azriel watches him lose consciousness, slumping back on the killer's torso with a heavy sigh. Pushing himself off the man, he barely manages to sit on the ground. 

His hands are coated red as he presses a palm to his bleeding shoulder, the other digging into his pocket. He brings out his cellphone, smudging the screen with blood as he tries to turn it on. He wipes it on his dusty trousers and gives it another go, the screen then allowing him to dial Helion.

"Hey," Helion answers at once. "Did you find anything new?" 

Azriel pants for breath, his chest rising and falling as he glances at Macmillan's motionless body. "Yeah. I have Macmillan. Knocked him out."

"What? Stay exactly where you are. Where are you?" 

Azriel tells him, mouth dry and parched. "And boss," he adds. "Get an ambulance."

_[Adrenaline is like a drug,  
The more you taste can't get enough  
Can you feel the rush?]_


	2. Chapter 2

In many ways, Elain's life is very predictable. 

Her mornings usually start with something like waking up from a light sleep plagued by strange dreams that somehow are not chased away by sleeping pills, standing on her aching legs and stretching until she hears two satisfying pops before hurrying to answer the calls of the demanding two-year-old at her door. Usually, there are interchangeable variables: sometimes her girl is in her bed poking her face, sometimes Elain is waking her up, sometimes they cuddle in Elain's large bed as dawn steadily breaks and mentally prepare for the oncoming day. 

Not today. 

The universe likes to question Elain's patience and sanity sometimes. It's like dealing with a toddler testing out the waters of mischief when it does, seeing as any semblance of an established daily routine for Elain is packed up neatly and tossed right out of the window at the start of her day. 

The cold October morning is an eager intern of the cold season, excited -in a way only a seven-year-old can or has the right to be- to perfect their job, perhaps too much. It's a day of fumbling for coats and hats, checking the weather online, yelping at the ice-cold water that greets one's hands in the bathroom -only to discover the heater is broken, thanks to a technician's sloppy work- and rushing to make a healthy breakfast while grappling for a hot drink to clutch because the chill in one's back is unnerving and makes the act of living a challenging feat.

It's the kind of day that challenges well-determined individuals such as Elain, particularly determined-to-be-positive individuals exactly like Elain; the kind who face the ill-behaved day as they would a misbehaving toddler with fists at their hips and stern faces. Stubborn Elain is adamant to make this day work, unyielding to the odds facing her and refusing to mark yet another day of the long year as a failure. 

It begins with the last-minute cancellation of babysitting her daughter by her younger sister, Feyre, and it is akin to an individual facing the very question they believed wouldn't make an appearance on the test. Because Elain has always had that nagging thought in her mind:  _ what if an emergency happens? You need a babysitter on call at all times. _ And Elain has always pushed it away, not quite ready to face that reality. 

But now it happens.

Winnie sits in the kitchen, occupied in her high chair with the various berries littering the small plastic tray, cooing in awe at the vibrant colours, completely disregarding the lone sandwich made with hasty hands. Her mother who was whizzing earlier about the house like a formidable hurricane in her attempts to get through the pair's daily routine is now standing by the table with her eyes glued to her cell phone's screen. Her thoughts preoccupied with the worrisome texts sent to her, she doesn't pay heed to Winnie babbling away in the words of a two-year-old toddler.

Elain calls her sister in a controlled frenzied panic, the daunting messages looming in her head, and spares a single glance to the prattling child before looking back to the table surface. "Are you okay?" she immediately asks when Feyre picks up. "What is it?"

Feyre's voice is hoarse and trembling weakly as she gathers the strength to reply. "Don't know yet," she groans. "My stomach feels so weird. We're waiting for our turn at the hospital."

"Is Rhys with you?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry I can't watch Winnie," Feyre's voice is low and hushed as if every spoken word threatens her stomach with an anarchy of the carefully established temporary peace in her organ which has only stopped clenching in anticipation of vomit. "And I'm sorry you didn't have a warning. I thought it'd be over by this morning."

"Don't be ridiculous," Elain brushes Winnie's fair fringe into place and cups the toddler's chin between her index and thumb briefly with a smile stemming from the beam she receives in return. "It's all right. What about Felix?"

"Cassian is dropping him off at preschool. What are you going to do with Winnie?"

"I don't know," answers Elain, running through today's hectic schedule and wincing. "I might resort to the neighbours."

"Please don't," murmurs Feyre, and Elain can envision the familiar pinched expression on her sister's face. Feyre has been combating stomach bacteria since childhood and her teens were an unpleasant experience spent mostly in bathrooms and hospitals that turned her stick-thin with the inability to keep anything down for longer than a few hours. Elain hopes it's a passing thing and not a recurring episode of a new bacteria feeding on her sister's organ because when they do happen they're unpleasant and time-consuming. "Gosh, I hate them."

"I don't know where else to put her," Elain murmurs back, turning her back on Winnie as she wedges her phone between her shoulder and ear, picking up the dishes left on the counter and piling them in the sink to be done later that night. Her neighbours are an old couple with an outlook on life older than the Declaration of Independence; Elain doesn't like them any more than Feyre does but keeps a civil relationship with them, if only because she had what they viewed as a 'proper life' –mostly- though that was recently upturned. 

"Graysen?" Feyre suggests.

"At work himself," Elain shakes her head, glancing at the clock on the wall; 7:05. They'll have to get going- where to, Elain doesn't know yet. "Go on, baby, wash your hands," Elain urges Winnie, lifting her out of her chair. She watches the girl run chattering to the sink in the bathroom, blonde wavy curls bouncing atop her small head.

Soft voices sound from Feyre's end of the line, a discussion undoubtedly held between her and her husband. "Rhys suggests you ask Azriel to watch her."

"Don't be ridiculous," repeats Elain, picking up the strewn toys off the floor of the living room and tossing them in the toy box by the television. The thought of asking the detective to do such a thing hasn't ever crossed Elain's mind, not only thanks to the busy occupation of the man but also because she only knows him in passing. She has probably only met him a handful of times, and only thanks to Feyre and Rhys's nuptials.

"Elain," the phone is transferred over to her brother-in-law, Rhysand. "I can speak for him; he'd be happy to help out. And he's got the week off work."

"Rhys, you can't volunteer people to babysit children they've never met," replies Elain as she herds Winnie up the stairs to dress her. What little she knows of the man is that he is private and quiet and certainly would mind being given responsibility so suddenly. "And if he's got the week off-"

"What other choice do you have?" Rhys cuts her reasoning as she makes her way in the girl's room. She hurriedly picks a pair of jeans from her daughter's dresser. "Nesta has classes, not to mention she's hours away, Cassian, Mor, Amren and Graysen are at work, and we're unavailable. Az is literally the only person I can vouch for to look after Winnie. And he's near."

Said little girl speaks sweetly to Elain as her mother dresses her in jeans. "Ree-Ree?" she tilts her head to the side as she holds onto Elain's shoulders, her uncle's voice audible enough for her to recognize.

Elain knows when she is defeated, and this is one of those cases. So far, the universe: 1, Elain: nil. 

"Send me his number," she admits defeat as she pulls a sweater over Winnie's head.

"I'll let him know for you," volunteers Rhys. "You finish getting ready."

"Oh I'm going to be late for work," Elain moans, pressing her cool hand to her face. Time is a precious commodity she has always valued because of its scarcity, and now she's in the negative. No way is Rhys going to be able to ask of him this early in the morning, wait for the man to come over or take her daughter to him, get dressed herself and get to the school in time. And that's presuming -quite foolishly- that the man will agree.

"I'll come over till he arrives," Rhys assures her in his steady confident tone that he is renowned for. "You finish up and I'll be over before you leave."

"Please be quick," she shoves a toy in Winnie's hand and dashes to her bedroom, hastily pulling out her clothes from her own wardrobe.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rings and Rhys shows himself inside, the sound of his voice carrying through the house talking to a thrilled Winnie in the living room. Elain ties her hair, finally dressed, and runs down the stairs in her black Chelsea boots, and her grey blazer. She sweeps her purse and graded papers off the dining table before making her way to the living room where Rhys and Winnie are chatting about her daughter's lovely green-and-yellow sweater that compliments her hair and eyes, and Rhys is teaching her what the phrase "It brings out your eyes" means.

"You're godsend," breathes Elain just as Rhys faces the single mother. She pecks his cheek while he gives her a hug and asks him as she checks the contents of her bag, "Did he give you an answer?"

"He's down," Rhys confirms, picking up her car keys from the coffee table strewn with brightly coloured plastic cups and plushies, handing them to her. "He'll be here in five. He doesn't live far."

"Thank you, thank you. You know what to tell him-?"

"Yes," laughs the man, a father himself, who has babysat for Elain more times than she could count. "I'll get back to Feyre when I'm sure they're fine."

"Tell him I'll come back and check on them before my shift at the bakery. Did you tell him I'll need him to babysit all day-?"

"Go!" Rhys nudges her. "You'll be late. Come on, Winnie," he swings the girl up in his arms. "Say bye to Mummy."

"Bye-bye!" waves Winnie with Rhys, clutching his shoulder and beaming at her mother. Elain hurriedly kisses her, smoothing her hair before dashing out of the house.

As she climbs into the car, she turns the engine on and the world throws her another confounded test.

The engine refuses to start. The weather's too cold, she has to wait for it to heat up.

She immediately pelts the steering wheel with her fists and beeps the honk a few times, restraining the urge to scream. Rhys appears at the doorstep a moment later with Winnie in his arms, dangling the keys to his black Sedan in his hands. Apologetic, and mouthing her sorry's, she scrambles out of the pickup truck. Catching the keys he tosses from the doorstep, she tosses hers right back and runs to his car, making little work of turning on the car and pulling out of the driveway.

As Elain pulls out of her lovely neighbourhood, multitasking steering with putting on the seatbelt and with turning on the radio, the world throws her way another wrinkle to start off her day. Ice Ice Baby playing.

Elain clenches down on her teeth and swallows a scream raging in her throat.

Universe: 3, Elain: nil.


	3. Chapter 3

When Azriel woke up to his phone ringing insistently on a Monday, he was not what someone might call pleased, per se. Rhys's name was the source of his ire at the ungodly hour of Azriel's well-earned time off and he debated ignoring it until Rhys stopped trying, but him knowing better than that and his inner voice of _"What if something's wrong?"_ nagging in his head had made him answer the phone with a muffled huff. 

"It's not even eight," Azriel grunted hoarsely into his pillow as a way of greeting.

"Sorry, brother," Rhys's steady English tone eased that anxious voice in Azriel's head- nothing was wrong then; Rhys could hardly mask his fear or worry from Azriel. He curled on the side of his body that didn't ache, left arm in a cast, egging him to reach for the painkillers on his nightstand. "I need a favour."

"Hm?" he rasped, burrowing into his covers. This is too early an hour to be up for a man who has been given time off of work. Not even his sweet Rebel was up.

"My niece needs babysitting and Feyre can't, neither can I. Can you pull through?"

"Huh?" Azriel intelligently grumbled, finally sitting up in bed and blinking away the fog of sleep from his eyes. Time in the police force has taught him how to solider on through almost any situation with little to no sleep, but it has yet to teach him how to be genuinely happy about it.

"Literally the sweetest girl on the planet," Rhys listed off in a hurried tone and Azriel had to fight the instinctive urge to reach for the pad and pen on his nightstand to write down the information given to him. "She's two. Her name's Winnie. If I wasn't afraid of her mother biting my head off, I would have adopted her myself and whisked her away. Her mum really needs someone to look after the girl, so can you? There is literally no one else to do so."

"Whose kid is she?" Azriel asked as he slid out of bed, lodging the phone between his good shoulder and ear, ignoring the painkillers momentarily as he made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the light switch. "Nesta has a kid?"

"No. Elain. You remember her from the wedding, don't you?"

Azriel barely recalled a grinning, doe-eyed woman who danced with her husband and her sisters all night long. "Vaguely. Your wedding night is blurred mostly to me. After the tequila and wine shots happened my mind stopped recording anything."

Rhys laughed shortly. "If it assures you, neither do I. If it weren't for the videotape I wouldn't know what happened after I said 'I do'."

"Hmm," Azriel turned on the tap water and put Rhys on speaker, balancing the phone on top of his deodorant.

"Will you do it? Elain's a teacher and she has a shift at a bakery after school. She needs you all day. I know you’re all banged up, but the kid is really well behaved."

Azriel rubbed cold water on his face and scratched his neck, staring at his reflection, at the darkened circles beneath his eyes; that last case had taken its sweet time in wrapping itself up. One downhill to that night was that Macmillan fell into a coma and Helion was pestering him if he had done something to Macmillan that would put them all into legal trouble. "Fine. Yeah, of course. What's her address?"

"I'll text you. I'll get there before you to let you know what you need. But you'll be fine, generally, Winnie's a darling."

Azriel smiled faintly, watching his reflection in the mirror, tracing the red slashes on his throat. "Every kid’s a darling to you."

The house he's driven to complies with the norm of a good neighbourhood. After years of service in the police force and CID, Azriel's developed a good sense of picking up on the environment and energy of something. And without needing to consult the records, he bets that the worst crime that has occurred here is probably mixing the recycling materials together. It's the type of proper neighbourhood where everyone knows each other and the lives of its occupants are probably dull and monotonous.

Rhys's black Sedan is nowhere to be seen as Azriel pulls up in the driveway and its absence prompts Azriel to frown at the address on his phone. Either he's here before Rhys or his brother mistook the house number, but – chancing glances around him at the other houses- his friend's car is nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, Azriel walks up to the house, dressed casually in his jeans and button-down –suits and ties become boring after diligent wear. He finds comfort in the casual attire, such a well-needed change from his daily uniform and has taken personal joy in going shopping for clothes with Rebel- and rings the bell once, hoping he hasn't come to the wrong house this early on Monday.

But Rhys swings the door open a second later and a tired happy smile tugs at Azriel's lips. He hasn't seen him in a long while, possibly for a month thanks to their busy schedules and Azriel's weekend shifts as the detective on call, he is genuinely more than happy to give his brother a one-armed careful hug. Rhys apparently came to check on him when he was in the hospital while he was out and Feyre was a frequent visitor to his apartment with Felix to check up on him- Goodness, does he love his sister in law.

"Man got you good," says Rhys as he eyes the sling Azriel's left arm is in as he ushers him in the nice house. "How's the shoulder?"

"Twinges," Azriel shrugs with his good shoulder, toeing out of his worn down trainers, following Rhys down the entryway and into a living room. His eyes fall on the little girl seated on the comfortable couch before a television, short legs not even dangling off the edge and he feels himself soften- he assumes this is Winnie. "Thank God for painkillers and cute nurses."

Rhys chuckles. "Az, allow me to introduce you to my princess," his friend gets down on his knees before the wide-eyed girl observing Azriel instead of the television. "Winnie, this is Azriel. My friend. The one we just talked about."

Azriel takes the hint and crouches down next to Rhys, coming eye-level with the little girl. "Hello, Winnie," he says slowly and clearly. "My name is Azriel."

"Ree-Ree?" the girl tilts her head to the side, turning her curious eyes on Rhys.

"No," the father shakes his head. "Azriel. Az-ree-el."

A wide grin spreads on the girl's lips, revealing her small teeth and a fire to her spirit that makes Azriel wonders if he's agreed to more than he can handle. "Asfeel?"

"Az, Az," corrects Rhys, patting her small knee. "Az-ree-el."

"Azeel!" the girl declares, throwing her fists in the air as she rests her startling bright eyes on Azriel. "Azeel!"

"Good enough," he nods. "I'm going to be your friend today. Is that okay?"

"My fwi-end?" she manages the words, tongue difficulty wording the syllables as he nods, confirming. "Azeel friend!"

"Great!" Azriel nods enthusiastically.

The girl crawls off the couch and runs excitedly to the coffee table to pick up a turquoise soft plushie from it and hurries over to Azriel, shoving the toy in his face with the widest grin he has ever seen on a child's face. "Friend!"

He smiles at her. "Is that for me?"

She immediately pulls back the toy, her fair undefined eyebrows furrowing a burrow between them. "No," she voices in a soft betrayed voice paired with colourful eyes staring disappointedly at him that chills Azriel's gut- suddenly, this child's disappointment (whom he doesn't even know) somehow stings him more than anything ever has, and it means more to him than anything can ever possibly mean to him.

Rhys interjects quickly, noticing the abruptly paused dynamic between the two-year-old and the thirty-year-old. "She thinks you want to take it. No one takes Pinky from her, Az."

"Oh, I'm sorry," his eyebrows shoot up.

"Sowwy?" she eyes him sternly –as much as a child her age can- as she clutches the turquoise squishmallow dragon to her chest. He nods earnestly.

"Pinky fow Winnie," she instructs, stepping close to him and hesitantly parting with the dragon. Azriel opens his arm slowly like one would when approaching a spooked animal and she holds out the toy to the extent of her small arms; Azriel reaches hesitantly to take it.

"No!" chastises Winnie at the way he holds her toy as if he's holding a mug. Azriel has never felt at the mercy of anyone in his life save for a few dark moments in his past, but this girl is making him feel like a failing cheeky student talking back to his teacher despite neglecting his homework. "Baby baby!"

Rhys shakes his head with a disappointed purse of his lips. "You have failed at the basics of cuddling plushies, Az. How do you feel? I think you need Plushies 101."

Azriel ignores his words, if only because his focus is on the strong-headed girl picking another plushie from the table and demonstrates holding it properly, as one would an infant. She pets the striped colourful bunny, her eyes screaming _"See? See?"._

"Oh okay," his eyebrows remain high on his brow at the passive aggressiveness as he observes the lecture and tries to adjust his hold on the toy with one arm. He ends up cuddling the dragon to his wounded arm. "Like this?"

She nods –Azriel can't help but feel that it's in a condescending way- and pats the dragon's head with a loving small hand. "Baby baby."

"So like a baby," he reasons and is ignored as she holds out the bunny to Rhys who shakes his head.

"Mine is Boo, Winnie," he reminds her, refusing to take the outstretched toy. "Where is he?"

"Boo," her eyes dim and her lips pout before mischief flickers to life in her eyes. "Up!" she points at the ceiling. "Mama up."

"Did Mama put it up?"

She nods. Rhys knows better than to fall into that trap.

"It's fine," he shakes his head as he stands straight. "You take Rabbit. I have to go."

"Go bye?!" it's like mentioning the park in front of a dog, Azriel reckons- the excitement and chaos is the same. He's very glad for his calm Rebel.

"Ree-Ree is going bye," he tells her. "Not Winnie."

"You didn't say why Feyre cancelled," Azriel remembers. "What's the matter?"

"Stomach acting up," offers Rhys quickly as Winnie immediately latches onto his pants and begins begging to be taken with him. "We were up all night. Decided to go to the hospital this morning."

"Is she all right?"

Rhys waves the concern aside, glancing at the two-year-old and her wide puppy eyes. "The usual. It's just worse because of Felix now- we have to think of him too."

"Where is he?" inquires Azriel over the girl's high pitched "Weewiks?! Weewiks?!"

"Cass took him to preschool," answers Rhys, patting the little girl's fair head absentmindedly. "I left Feyre at the hospital. Anyway, let me tell you what you need to know so I can get back to her."

Azriel stands up as Rhys swings the girl up in his arms and shows the way to the kitchen. "Uh, Winnie doesn't have any food allergies that we've discovered so far," Rhys begins as Azriel looks around the spacious kitchen; the house is a tad too big for only two inhabitants and the kitchen echoes the living room's background sonata of empty space and small lived in areas. The dishes are a small pile in the sink; the table bears many objects of miscellaneous cups and cutlery, plastic toy spoons, and forgotten groceries of canned food and vegetables; there are crumbs of bread and bits of food on the floor around the messy high chair; the blinds over the window are broken and hang at a steep angle.

He looks back at Rhys after observing the fridge and leans forward on the table, resting his good elbow on a can of beans and his busted arm on the surface. "Just keep her happy and entertained," shrugs Rhys under Azriel's look. "Elain's contacts are on the fridge. First-Aid kit is in.... one of these cupboards. Or the living room, I don't know. Don't let Winnie watch too much TV. Her room is the one upstairs, first door to your left. She's potty trained, and she'll probably get shy if you offer- so be patient," Rhys leans against the table, gaze resting on Winnie who is chewing her finger while staring back at him with those wide eyes. "What else? Give Elain hourly updates so she knows everything is fine, even if she doesn't reply. Uh... Anything else, Win?"

"Fweets," the girl mumbles.

"Right!" snaps Rhys, straightening up. "None of those," Rhys seriously instructs Azriel with a deadened look in his eyes leaving no room for mirth or jesting. Winnie whines her unintelligent protest at once. "Absolutely none of that. I'm serious. Avoid junk food at all costs. Everything has to be absolutely healthy and nutritionally balanced-"

"Calm your inner mother," drawls Azriel, forehead wrinkled as he angles his head up at Rhys, back curved. "One arm, remember?" Rhys's eyes fall on the sling and his lower lip is snatched up by the rows of his teeth. "What do I feed her?"

"I'm sure Elain has prepared meals or simple things to make," Rhys finally says. "Elain's big on healthy food and a balanced diet-"

"Pasta good?" Azriel interrupts, going through the modest list of meals he can prepare. He rolls his eyes at the disapproving look that overcomes his friend's face and says with a fed-up voice; "Fatherhood made you into the most basic asshole parent I know. Since when do you turn your nose at pasta? Forgot college?"

"Pafa," mumbles Winnie, meeting Azriel's eyes hesitantly across the table. He offers her a half-smile. She beams. "Pafa!" she repeats, more confident and begins to chant the word. "Pafa! Pafa-!"

"Fine, fine," Rhys sets Winnie on the table, shoving aside a plastic bag of leftover bakery goods. "Just stick to the house, no sweets, don't keep her on the television long-"

"Naps?"

"Noon-ish. She'll let you know when it's nap time, won't you, Win?"

"Nap time!"

"She loves napping," explains Rhys to the apprehensive look spreading across Azriel's features. "Everything you might need for entertainment is in her room. Don't take out toys or anything Elain has put away. If you make a mess, clean it up. And no swearing, seriously that a-bomb is unacceptable-"

Azriel cocks an eyebrow up that tells Rhys exactly what he thinks of the unwanted opinion.

"Read books!" Rhys remembers. "Don't let her anywhere near Elain's room which is... I don't know. Keep her hydrated. Happy. Entertained-"

"Rhys," Azriel calmly interrupts. "Go back to Feyre."

"Fey-Fey!"

Rhys smiles at his niece and kisses her forehead. "Bye, princess. Be good for Azriel, now."

Azriel nods to his friend who gives him a solitary wave and makes his way out of the kitchen, and out of the house, leaving the quiet Winnie and Azriel.

"So," he gives her inquisitive state a fleeting smile when she directs it at him. "Pinky and Rabbit, huh?"

_______________

Surprisingly, Elain's day doesn't further go to the dogs. By the power of sheer determination for things to be positive, she soldiers on through her day teaching. She focuses on the bright sides; her daughter is at home being looked after, Elain has driven to work in a very attractive car, and her kids today are all thankfully sweet munchkins –mostly. A few of them are- and their schedule on Monday is blessedly merciful. To Elain, anyways.

On the other hand- She shakes her head. There won't be another hand. Not until she's at home having finished her day. She'll criticize something after having seen it through.

By nine o'clock on the designated Monday of her misery, Elain feels her phone vibrate in her pocket as she teaches her students about photosynthesis and ignores the brief vibration; a text message, no doubt. Probably Graysen.

When her students go off to Math and she waits for her other class, she checks her phone for the message from an unknown number.

"Texting on the job, Archeron?"

She looks up sharply, having unheard anyone come into her class and blanches at the sight of Mr. Vanserra in her classroom. She drops the phone quickly on the desk and her hand joins her other in a polite stance as she stands up. Her stern faced principle is a feared man in the school and amongst the students is known as The Boogeyman (which is somewhat accurate- Elain concedes to that despite her own morals) thanks to his attitude that puts the fear of God into all the students, even the more mischievous rascals. It takes only the jingling of his keys hung on his belt to get all the students in the hallway he walks to fall silent and complacent. Elain actually respects him, as opposed to some of the other staff and teachers who aren't as appreciative of his stern and harsh methods of running the school.

The scowl on his face makes her throat go dry and gives her the feeling she's a slacking college student. She ducks her head slightly, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. "Sorry, Mr. Vanserra."

His harsh features soften somewhat and his amber-coloured eyes twinkle with amusement. "Eris, Elain. I'm only pulling your leg."

Elain huffs out a sigh of relief and smiles shakily- her principle's moods aren't what most people can successfully interpret, so when interacting with Eris Vanserra there can only be luck and prayers to guide one through that storm. Most of them choose to not run into him at all due to that, and rely heavily on formalities to shelter them from the tempest of his temper. A temper that had expelled three students from his school along with the staff members that were –in his opinion- responsible for the incident that happened. Foxwood Private Academy is a renown private school opened only to the most elite of students and Eris would not tolerate the reputation of his school tarnished; from what Elain understands, the school is his pride and joy.

As much as a person like him can be 'joyful' anyways. Such a strong word for a man with no default facial expressions other than anger, fury and rage- which are all essentially the same thing.

"I didn't hear you coming," she quips with a shaky smile. "Usually I hear you down the hall."

His hands slide into his pockets. "How?"

"Keys," she glances at his belt and notices no jingling keys hanging off them. "You hang them on your belt and they let everyone know you're coming."

His eyes brighten and Elain can swear it is almost a smile on his face. His features aren't as harsh, and if she looks closely behind the lines imprinted by scowling and frowning, she can picture a handsome version of himself. He draws his hand out of his pocket, the set of keys in his palm dangle from his thumb in the familiar jangle that brings about hushed discipline.

Elain smiles at him, reclaiming her seat behind her desk to rub her knees. He really did give her a scare. "How's the country running?" she asks gently, brushing a strand of wavy hair behind her ear as she stretches her legs out before her.

"Terrible," he replies immediately in that cold tone of his that wipes the smile off Elain's face at once. "Absolutely terrible. Have you seen the news recently?"

"What? No. What news?"

His amber eyes sharpen and his glare is probably absentminded but it still startles Elain all the same. "Don’t you watch the news? You got to be more aware, Elain. This country is going to the dogs, and absent minded people too busy to pay attention to the rest taking advantage are what contributes to-"

"Oh, no, no," she shakes her head and hands quickly. "I meant the school, Eris."

He abruptly shuts up and clamps his lips together. "I thought you meant the nation."

"My fault," she replies with a hesitant smile. "It's rare to see you out of your office, is everything all right?"

"Yes. Everything is all right," he answers defensively. "Why would things not be all right?"

"Like I said," Elain gently repeats. "It's rare to see you out of your office."

"I wanted to stretch my legs," Eris answers flatly in his droning voice. "Then I saw you slacking off the job."

Elain rolls her eyes slightly with a smile as she picks up her phone from where she dropped it. "Checking my messages. My brother in-law's friend is babysitting my daughter for me. My morning was hectic, so I didn't get the chance to see him before I left; I thought he'd have sent something."

"How old is your daughter?" Eris asks, scowling.

"Two and a half."

"Hire a nanny."

Swallowing thickly, Elain glances away from her fiery-eyed principal. "Don't like them. I don't like having strangers around my kid."

"This friend of yours, he knows her?"

Elain feels her cheeks warm as she brushes her hair behind her ears again and considers taking off her blazer. Touché, she knows. "Uh, no."

Eris falls quiet for long that Elain is hesitant to look at him and see the judgmental look on his face. "Well."

Elain glances at him, his stony face and his frowning face. "Her father is not in the picture?"

Elain nibbles on the corner of her lip, eyebrows rising high on her forehead before steadily being lowered.

"I see. Have a good day, Elain," the red haired man turns on his heels and walks out of her classroom without a backward glance. As he leaves, he adds over his shoulder; "Don't forget our meeting after classes today."

"I won't!" she quickly squeaks, having definitely forgotten that meeting. She watches Eris walk into the hallway, and if she squints she can swear he has a smile on his lips. Once she's sure he's gone, she dashes to her planner on the desk and frantically opens to today's page, and remembers that she has to plan out the whole week today, too. She has an hour till her next class, so she'll use that to plan her week and review what she's going to teach today.

Her phone's screen lights up, reminding her of the text she's received that she hasn't seen yet. The unknown number's digits don't stand out to her as she takes a look.

_Text Message Today 9:03 AM_

_Hi, this is Azriel. Rhys told me you want hourly updates. Winnie is fine, we've discussed her plushies and their creative names. We're going to play with her dolls now and then draw for an hour or so. She's calm and opened up so she's not shy anymore._

A smile curves Elain's lips: that's her sweet social butterfly. Elain has noticed that Winnie can befriend anything that breathed and work things her way to entertain herself; if Winnie is bored, Winnie is going to remedy that by any possible way. Elain sometimes lets her play with vegetables while she grades and works at the kitchen table and the conversation she hears are as sweet as they are nonsensible- but Winnie is entertained. 

Felix and Winnie are a duo that Elain can barely handle on her best days and believes Feyre is a legend for handling both of them together (actively volunteers to do it, no less!) along with managing online classes and business deals over the phone while solving other people's problems and listening to the latest gossip from her best friend, Suriel.

Clicking her phone shut, Elain turns it face down and pulls her planner towards her; time to get to work. She'll worry about being late for her second job later.


	4. Chapter 4

Azriel can get used to this, in all honesty.

The girl's well behaved and knows her manners –which makes looking after her ten times easier because Azriel isn’t here to discipline people's kids for them- and possesses a degree of intelligence Azriel doesn't often see in kids her age.

In the hour he's been here, he's learned that she loves her Pinky dragon and that thinking of taking it for himself would have warranted a death sentence had Rhys not intervened on his behalf and begged the lady for her benevolent mercy –Azriel paraphrases; it was mostly "Ababbaa b aba baa Pinky! Pinky Pinky Winnie! Abababababababa! Winnie!" followed by intense wagging index finger movements so Azriel got the hint and didn't ask to take any of her toys for himself- and he's also learned that Winnie likes to talk- a lot. She began chatting the moment he showed interest in her toys and Azriel found himself running to catch up with her train of thoughts as she eagerly introduced him to the large cast of her plushie friends and explained that it was polite to kiss them when meeting them- again, he's going on a whim here but it's exactly the reason why conversing with her is enjoyable.

And apparently her plushies go to bed at ten o'clock in the morning. Children have their own schedule. One moment Azriel was cuddling Pinky the dragon with one arm while Winnie cuddles the other and coos it to sleep then suddenly she's ordering him to put the kids to bed.

"Nap?" he asks when she eagerly comes by his side to check on her plushie in his good arm and nods her approval of his good motherhood.

"Nap." She nods and tugs on his sleeve. Obediently, he rises to his feet in the living room and scoops up the other plushies that she is not carrying then follows her out of the room and up the stairs.

"Do you want help?" he asks the girl who's taking one step at a time.

"No, fank woo," answers Winnie with a furrow between her eyebrows as she climbs the stairs. Az stays one step behind her in case she falls backwards and it takes them a few minutes to climb the stairs, but when they manage, Winnie huffs in victory and runs in a child's crooked wobble to an open door, her room, and Azriel dutifully follows.

It feels strange to him, being in a lived-in home and feeling all the signs of a well-loved life with no reason related to his work. Azriel has been in homes such as this and has closely inspected children's rooms, but for heavier reasons- the only homes he goes to are when he's on a case: to interview a grieving parent with a missing child or to study a child's room for signs of their kidnapping. There are cases Azriel has worked on that keep him up at night thanks to them hitting too close to home and being in this little girl's room, Azriel wishes he'll never have to look around it for any other reason than to spot out potential dangers or emergency exits.

But it's become a habit of his to study every new room he is in; this house is no different.

"I love your room," he compliments as Winnie gets to her knees by a corner where a blanket is spread out and she starts arranging her plushies on it, tucking them close together. Azriel follows suit.

"Nap nap," says Winnie as Azriel fits them together, side by side; a happy family of mismatched animals and mythical creatures. He smooths their fur and fixes their arrangement while Winnie skips to a drawer and pulls out a worn blanket, coming back to his side and covering the toys, tucking them in.

Winnie's room is a spacious place, the walls painted a soothing yellow and some green colours, with white furniture and painted cute woodland animals on the white wall. Azriel immediately looks for the signature on the wall that is bound to be there and privately smiles at Feyre's mark with _ Love you, Winnie xo _ when he finds it. The whole room speaks of a happy little girl's space; it's obviously a well-loved room with its remains of childish scribbles with ink, dents in the wall that speaks of furniture moved around, scratches at the bottom, stains in the carpet furiously scrubbed out until the material is weary, toys strewn in every corner of the land, and small objects and utensils of the kitchen that have magically migrated somehow.

"Your room is very pretty," Azriel tells Winnie. She pauses from taking off a lid of a basket and stares blankly at him. "This-" he gestures to the room. "Very pretty."

"Pwetty," she mouths the word, looking up at the walls and ceilings. She then beams. "Pwetty!"

Azriel beams back.

After putting the plushies to bed, it's dolls next and a tea party where the more intelligent sophisticated conversation takes place regarding the word 'blue' and the walls, and the sky, and 'woof woof', and 'pretty' and somehow Azriel ends up debating the Oxford dictionary versus the Cambridge one with a two-year-old. Paraphrasing.

Hours pass by in such manner, enjoying civil conversation with the chatty girl that Azriel mentally runs to catch up with her train of thoughts, and being taught the etiquette of tea parties and drinking tea: the pinky has to be out. Always. If the pinky is not, then it is not a tea party but rather some barbarian gathering of gorillas coming together to slurp hot drinks and bang their chests. 

Azriel remembers to send her mother hourly updates, to which he doesn't receive answers, but feels that the day's hours -which usually go by in a torturous pace- pick up their pace the longer he spends it in the company of the gregarious toddler. He doesn't have problems interacting with children, he's gifted in that department which is an added bonus in his line of work; children are usually very questionable witnesses, what with their wild imagination and underdeveloped thinking that makes their word questionable.

But there's something about this girl's round cheeks and small lips that widen in a grin easily, something enrapturing about the bright hue of her wide hazel eyes that shines vibrantly between blue and green and grey- something about the complete trust and ease with which she interacts with her safe environment that it seeps into Azriel himself,  makes his lips tug up into a carefree smile of a personal cheer.

The only nagging thought in his mind that disrupts this peace is what he's going to do if the girl asks about his hands. He hasn't been asked that by a child yet –usually they're more focused on his questions to think of their own. Azriel isn't subconscious about his scars, if only because he's gotten used to them (when someone has had them since the age of eight, it's hard to see life without them, really) and usually wears gloves to stop them from being distractions.

But Winnie doesn't even glance twice at them. If anything, her eyes are curiously fixed on the cast and sling his arm is in and asks him about that instead. She points at it and tilts her head, "Why that?"

He racks his mind for the suitable vocabulary and hesitantly says "I hurt it. The doctor put it like this to make it better."

Winnie stares intensely deep into his eyes, the apparent confusion and mental exercise going on evident in the slight furrow of her brow. "What?"

Ok, so she probably doesn't know what a doctor is. "My arm hurts and this makes it better."

"Boo-boo?" she inquires.

"Uh, yeah. Boo-boo."

Winnie's small fingers are holding onto her plastic pink teacup with scribbles in black Sharpie on it and her gaze is very inquisitive. "Kiss boo-boo?"

"What?"

"Kiss boo boo?" she repeats. Then she sets the cup down and points at him. "Kiss boo-boo?"

Is she asking if he got it kissed better? "Yes. Yes, I did."

Satisfied, she picks up her teacup and takes a sip then resumes her conversation regarding- in truth,, he has no idea what she's talking about. He's run out of creative topics to assign to her blabbered words.

By the time Azriel's been at the house for three hours, Winnie stands up with renewed fervour and declares her desire for food. Azriel abandons the doll he was given gladly –after forty minutes of doll playing, his mind can only take so much- and stands from the plush toy he's been sitting on to leave the girl's bedroom. The trip down the stairs is quicker than climbing up, and she once again refuses the offer of help but clutches his jeans with her hand and the railing of the stairs with the other.

He rummages around in the kitchen for a snack to feed her. The fridge has numerous papers and drawings pinned to it, but none of them enlightens him to the meal plans or what Winnie is used to having.

"What do you want to eat, Winnie?" he asks as he opens the fridge. She stands barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, small feet gone red with the cold, stark against the porcelain colour of the floor.

"Fweet!" she declares in a high pitched voice.

A chuckle escapes him as he studies the fridge; it's nearly empty, save for a few half-filled condiments, a couple of wrinkled vegetables, cheese, and a Tupperware of... something, it looks old. There's milk in the door and a few bottles of juice –a quick shake of them confirms their scarce contents- but other than that there's nothing notable. If it weren't for the lack of beer cases and tough pizza slices, Azriel would have assumed the fridge was of a single college student. Hell, even his fridge has better edible materials than this.

"Your mama is having a rough time, isn't she?" mutters Azriel, catching sight of an egg.

"How do you feel about an egg and cheese sandwich, Winnie?" Azriel holds up the egg for her to see and her eyes light up as she eagerly nods. He smiles as he brings out the cheese too and shuts the fridge.

"Remember the taste of this, little girl. You won't have anything like it again."

Winnie grins toothily and laughs loudly.

It's a bit of a challenge to do anything with one arm but he manages though he takes a bit longer in preparing the sandwich. Azriel hunts down a pan that's not in the sink pile and searches for butter, managing to incorporate the help of his hips and free shoulder to work.

Rummaging through the bag of baked goods on the table, he discovers some lone sweet tarts and a bit of leftover bread. He makes Winnie's sandwich with a tart between his teeth as his own breakfast and decides that managing to make a sandwich one-handed is a talent not all humans possess- it is résumé worthy.

What Azriel did not know before then was how damned long a toddler takes while eating their sandwich.

He puts the dishes he's used in the sink, dowsing them in cold water –after waiting for a solid minute for the water to turn hot he realised that Elain's heater was probably broken- packs away the things on the table littering its surface in their respective places after looking through the cupboards and drawers, then he even throws out some vegetables gone rotten in the fridge and wipes the table with paper towels all while Winnie nibbled on one half of her sandwich.

Though she happily eats, for every nibble she takes she speaks ten words. It's a good thing he has the patience of a saint and sits at the dining table with her and listens to her speak as she kicks her legs out and brings them back and kicks them out again.

"All right now, bring in the reviews," he says when she's done with the first half.

"What?" she asks with a mouthful of scrambled eggs and bread. She likes that word- what. For everything she's not sure about she counters with a high pitched  _ What? _

"Is it tasty? Is it eek?"

"What?"

"Is the sandwich yummy?" he makes a happy expression after pointing at the sandwich. "Or is it ew?" he scrunches up his face and shakes his head.

"Ew..." she repeats, blinking her wide eyes. "What?"

He chuckles. "Do you want to eat that?"

"Yes," she picks the other half with her small hands and begins her slow process of eating. He supposes that's as good as a review he'll get from her. His phone chimes in his pocket.

After eating comes drawing and colouring where it is made apparent that Winnie is only allowed low-quality pencils. Winnie is happier to focus on her drawings than him so he sits with her at the messy dining table as she draws and reads through his received texts.

_ Nuala: I know you're off duty technically but Helion said nothing about doing electronic paperwork. Help, please. _

_ Azriel: depends if it can wait. Is it about the triple Godfrey murder?  _

_ Nuala: sort of. Your timing is golden. I really could use your robotic brain right now. There's a shit-ton of work to do and not enough time.  _

_ Azriel: shouldn't you be working and not texting? _

_ Nuala: I'm texting to call in the cavalry.  _

_ Azriel: I'm babysitting right now. Send me urgent things I can take a look at from my phone. Then later tonight I can help you more.  _

_ Nuala: I owe you sushi. Here; _

_ *sent an attachment* _

_ *sent an attachment* _

_ *sent an attachment* _

_ *sent an attachment* _

*sent an attachment*

Rubbing his forehead, he downloads the files one by one, cursing softly when they take time to do so: he'd forgotten to get the Wi-Fi password from Rhys and his data could only do so much. Two o'clock comes after activities of drawing, playing with bright blocks, playing chase in the backyard and Winnie starts yawning.

"Nap time?" he asks. Winnie yawns again and nods, makes her own way to the living room and dumps herself on the couch before the television. Azriel finds a soft blanket that leaves a distinct scent of honeysuckle on his hands and covers Winnie's body with it, a sudden urge in his chest pushing him to straighten her hair and tuck the blanket around her.

_ She's taking a nap now _ , he texts her mother and shoves the phone in his pocket before surveying the mess they have made. Azriel glances once at the sleeping girl before setting out to tidy up the mess they created, avoiding the extra work he signed up for from Nuala.

Just as he's wrapping up cleaning the kitchen while Winnie naps, a call on his cell phone comes from the unknown number that belongs to Winnie's mother.

"Hello, is this Azriel?"

Azriel wedges the phone in between his shoulder and ear as he turns the heat of the stove higher under the dirty pot of water and soap. "Yes, Hi. Elain, right?"

"Uhu, thank you so much for doing this, I'm really grateful for this. I'm sorry I couldn't reply to the updates but they comforted me. Is she still asleep?"

"Yeah," he leans against the counter. "How long do I let her?"

"She usually naps for an hour and half, but if she sleeps for two it's fine. Thank you so much for doing this, Rhys said you're on time off work, too, so I appreciate it a whole lot."

"It's all right."

"I know I told Rhys to let you know that I'm going to come home to check on you guys, but I had a meeting that I'd forgotten about and I'm running short on time for my next job. I'm really sorry, but are you okay with that?"

"It's fine, I don't mind. When can I expect you?"

"I finish my shift usually around eight, so around eight-thirty I'll be home. Is that all right with you?"

That is way later than he anticipated. "When's Winnie's bedtime?"

"She doesn't have one, yet. She stays up pretty late."

"What do I give her to eat?"

"Anything you can put together, really. She's not a picky eater. The sandwich should keep her full till six."

Azriel keeps his thoughts to himself. "Anything special she has to do?"

"If she gets sleepy before I come home then make sure she brushes her teeth and gets into her pyjamas. Uh, she can have two hours of television time in total if she gets too hard to handle. There isn't anything specific, really. I'll try and get off work earlier today."

"All right. It's fine with me."

"Okay. I'll speak to you once I'm done."

He clicks the red button on his screen and tucks his phone away, eyes going back to the pot he's heating on the stove.

When he has run out of things to do while Winnie sleeps, he sits at the couch she naps on and menially goes through the documents sent to him, reading Nuala's hurried notes and misspelled words. Reading a document on his phone that is not a PDF is frustrating, and the layout is messed up. He can't fill the reports out for Nuala from his phone so pushes that to when he's back home and reads the document of all she's gathered about a case she's had for a few months now. 

Two pages in the thirty paged document, Winnie stirs. "Mama?"

Azriel whips his head around to see Winnie sitting up, rubbing her eyes and letting out a sob when her mother does not answer. "Mama," she whimpers, giving another cranky cry.

"Hey, it's okay. Mama will be here soon," he drops his phone in his lap. "It's ok, Winnie."

Winnie's eyes slide shut and she dumps herself on her side, curling in a ball with her head brushing against his thigh. Azriel brings the blanket over her curled body and runs his hand over her small head saying quietly; "It's okay. Mama will be here soon."

She gives another sob, mumbling "Mama" in a heartbroken yearning voice that resonates deeply with Azriel as she asks for her mother.

"It's okay," he murmurs quietly, heart heavy and tone softer than it's been in a very long while. "Your mother is still here for you, little girl. She’s still here.”

She dry heaves in her sleep and snores softly. He pats her shoulder gently and picks his phone back up, heart a little heavier, a little touched and just a bit tender.

____

Elain doesn’t mind meetings. Usually they’re to the point and time-saving; Eris goes by his agenda second by second. He leads them effectively, leaves no room for confusion and time wasting. 

Not today. 

Today’s meeting takes longer than usual due to the extra topic they’re discussing: the fundraiser they’re holding in April. Since the Eastwood High shooting at the start of the school year, Eris has been adamant on carrying out his plan to improve security and invest more money into avoiding any sort of the danger. The board of governors had refused to cut more of the budget for this after several months of going to war with them so Eris had decided to take matters into his own hands. 

“If the government won’t take guns off the street, I’m protecting this school myself.”

Elain finds it admirable and agreeable and under normal circumstances where she isn’t stressed out, she’d be jumping in with the rest of the staff brainstorming ideas but today she can’t sit still or think straight. Thankfully her teaching wasn’t a notch under her normal standards and she thinks it went well but her heart isn’t behind it today. She just wants the day to be over already. 

Clare, the chemistry lab teacher, lays a hand gently on her thigh to stop Elain’s jittery leg bouncing. Shooting her a fleeting apologetic smile, Elain crosses her legs and twirls her pen between her fingers, clicking it several times. Clare sighs. Elain looks down at her open notebook, the page empty save for a scribbled date and a dash to list ideas and looks back at one of the math teachers, Andrew, who’s suggesting the idea of the Jellybean Jar count which can be a great opportunity to raise money and also teach the children mathematics. 

Elain spaces out while they talk and discuss, thinking of an idea herself to bring to the table to escape Eris’s frequent glances. 

“Cupcake decorating,” she says, voice cracking before she clears her throat. “Kids love decorating with icing and cupcakes are easy to make. I can get a hold of a bakery to donate some.” 

Eris nods and some murmur their agreement. 

“So obstacle courses, cupcake decorating, jellybean jar count…” Elain spaces out again.

At some point Eris tells them about part of the program he is putting. He’s bringing the teachers a trainer to teach them how to deal with the shooter. It stifles the cheerful atmosphere of banter and friendly suggestions and chokes it into a plastic bag. Elain feels that familiar chill run down her limbs whenever someone mentions heavy subjects like this before her. The room falls silent in response to Eris’s words and only Andrew finds the courage to brave through. 

Sometimes her students ask her if she likes being a teacher. Her answer is a carefully constructed honest one. She tells them: if the job was only the act of actually teaching she’d never think otherwise but that’s not the case. Though it is tough being a teacher, it’s rewarding: Elain holds onto that every year as she watches her students graduate into middle school- such a small milestone but one she is always proud to witness for the children she’s taught as her own. Of all the troubles that come with her position, the incessant guilt is what Elain has a problem with. She spends her days nurturing other people’s children while neglecting her own- by what heart of a mother can she find it in her to do so? Every day it is a battle to bring herself to go to school and leave her girl behind instead of casting aside her work to cuddle her up and love her until Winnie does not want her love anymore. 

She plants the bright smile on her face with her students, engages them in enticing conversations that she should be having with her child, teaches them morals and teaches them about the world when all she wants is to do it to Winnie. She wants to teach Winnie her colours, the names of plants and flowers, teach her the noises animals make, the names of shapes, take her for a walk to the beach and teach her to swim. But Elain can’t do that- Winnie needs a roof over her head and food to feed her more than she does her mother’s attention. 

Elain presents the expected image of her to her colleagues and her principle; the calm lovable fifth grade teacher with tired eyes but a respectful smile. To her friends, she’s the tired determined single mother who is managing as well as she can. To her family, Elain’s the tough rose of sharp thorns powering her way through her life while being soft enough to feel for others.

To herself, Elain’s just Elain: heartbroken, lonely, guilty.

And now Elain’s going to be taught how to fight a shooter to save her students’ lives. If she loses her life in the process, dies protecting her kids, of course it’s not wasted but what does she leave Winnie with? 

She sets down her pen and clutches her right wrist. It’s not going to happen to them, this is only a big Just In Case. Just a formality to ease Eris’s brain. It’s okay.

“Oh Elain didn’t you say your friend is a former Marine?” Andrew tries to steer the subject away from the dark thoughts. 

Eyes swivel to her expectantly, and she swallows through her dry mouth. Cassian is, yes (though he’d likely snap at someone that he still is one  _ “Once a Marine, always a Marine” _ ), but Cass is also handicapped and she can’t bear to bring the question to him; he is medically retired and Elain doesn’t yet know if he can even do this. He runs a gym, yes, and holds a support group for fellow army soldiers but he doesn’t train. Elain has helped out his support group many times for fundraisers and the like, and she doesn’t like to think of this as cashing in a favour. But perhaps he has a friend who’d be willing to do this. 

“Yes,” she nods, tightening her crossed legs. “I don’t know if he’ll be up to it but I’m sure he’ll be glad to help.” 

“Good,” nodded Eris. “I was thinking to start this weekend or the next week after school.”

Elain suppressed a shudder and returned her gaze to her notebook. She’ll call Cass tonight and ask him, it’d be a lovely chance to hang out again. She likes Cassian, he is the perfect blend of funny and caring- he likes to watch out for people and was there for her when she went through her divorce. He gave her his car, claiming he had little use for it and that the exercise does him good. Elain’s forever grateful, and when she has the time, she usually goes around to his gym and takes him out for ice cream. Graysen used to be stingy about her friendship with Cassian and in return Cass had done next to nothing to ease Graysen’s jealousy. He teased the living daylights out of him when they ran into each other, and the only thing that would wipe the glum look off Graysen’s face would be several kisses from Elain and calling him a ‘big broody baby’. 

When the meeting at last comes to an end, Elain is already an hour and half late for her shift at the bakery and she shoots like a released arrow out of the room without bothering to say her farewells. Ianthe recently has been making off handed remarks about Elain’s commitment to the job and Cer confided in her that the sales and profits were going down for the past few months and that she had a feeling some of them were going to be cut loose. Elain can’t afford that loss (literally) and skims through her list of excuses for being late as she speeds on the street towards the city, praying beyond hope Ianthe would let her off the hook this once. 


	5. Chapter 5

_Golden Crumbs_ is a retail bakery in the center of downtown Velaris on Rainbow Street, owned and managed by Ianthe Villan who’d invested thought and money into trumping other bakeries around with the success of _Golden Crumbs_. The front-of-house space is of an industrial design broken with elements of the rustic touch: warm tones, brick wall, french doors and the sweet aroma of baked delicacies that attracts those in downtown and regulars from all over the state.

It’s a refuge for the hopeless, the sleep deprived, the hungry, the cold and those embarking on a romantic journey. An antidote to the cold of the season, the warmth is one of the main attractions of the bakery, the sweet cinnamon smell being the other that attracts customers and forces them against their will to empty their wallets on cinnamon rolls and cups of hot latte. Ianthe carefully set up the front-of-house design to accommodate counter service and dining, so not only is it suitable for takeout, but also enjoying a coffee break. The success of the place is owed to its manager, and the tactful business tricks she employed from the very start, along with a generous budget.

Elain’s been working in it since she picked herself up in Feyre’s house after a week of numb solidarity last August. The bakery pays just enough to keep Elain perfectly afloat in her life, and the shifts she works there - although long - are suitable for her teaching schedule. Allowing her to be home with Winnie by eight. However, her boss is not one to earn a World’s Best Boss mug from her anytime soon. Ianthe, in short, is a pig-headed bitch. Who, if you were shot, would blame you for being near the gun and dock your missed hours from your pay.

Elain managed to get there two hours late. No one was in the back room when she sneaked in and hurriedly changed her clothes, slipping into the huge kitchen, catching sight of Cerridwen kneading dough at Elain’s station. When she notices her, Cerridwen bites her lower lip, eyes darting to Hart, their head backer, shouting at Freddie and shakes her head ever so slightly.

“Pissed,” she mouthes to Elain and Elain knows at once, she is not being let off the hook this time. Hart has a usually sweet disposition, but once his temper is spiked there can be no shelter from his hawk like eyes and loud booming voice. She fiddles with the knot of her apron while he shouts.

"Ianthe's mad," murmurs Cerridwen as she kneads the dough. "The cinnamon rolls weren't made today. Neither the croissants."

"Why didn't anyone else make them?" Elain mutters back.

Nuala shakes her head. "Sell half quality products? You make them best. People would stop coming here."

Elain nibbles her lip, watching Hart go blue in the face while the rest of the staff go about their duties. "Why's he mad?"

"Freddie disappeared for a few hours and the dishes piled up."

"Well today's a bad day."

"That's not all," Nuala says quietly, briefly pausing her kneading to look Elain in the eyes. "This morning-"

_"Elain!"_

"Be right back," she pats her shoulder and makes her way through the kitchen towards Hart standing by the doors. His great muscular build towers over her, and she has to stand a few feet away to meet his eyes without craning her neck. "I'm really sorry, Hart, I had a meeting after s-"

"Save it for the bitch, I don’t care," grunts Hart, jutting a thumb towards the doors. "She said to send you to her the minute you come through the door."

"Is she giving me the sack?"

"I don't know. She's pissed to heaven high. If I weren't mad at you I'd thank you for bothering her but she's been on my back since." Without waiting for an answer he walks away, leaving Elain to mentally write out her will.

Ianthe's office is a small room containing a desk and a small window, some certificates framed on the wall along with pictures of the opening day. It has a single chair fit into the cramped space and despite the scarce furniture, it's as expressive as some professionally furnished houses. Right now, all it's expressing to Elain in its daunting foreboding tone is her upcoming execution at the hands of the capitalist dictator.

Ianthe herself sits behind her desk, peering over papers and her laptop with a pair of glasses perched on her nose. Her pale eyes peer at Elain over them the minute she walks in, and Elain internally sighs when Ianthe gestures to the solitary chair and slowly takes off her glasses. Setting them atop her documents, shaking her head delicately for her hair to fall in place while she sniffs and clears her throat with a soft “ahem”.

“Hello, Elain,” she begins with her soft pretentious voice that makes Elain want to roll her eyes. “I noticed your absence today for several hours. It disappointed me, if I am to be honest with you. I am so disappointed. As you know, our bakery is, ah, special. We run differently than competitors and our success is built on individual effort more than it does on anything else. Remind me, please, why _Golden Crumbs_ is special, Elain?”

“The goods are handmade,” Elain replies quietly.

“The goods are handmade,” agrees Ianthe gently, eyes fixed on Elain and nodding condescendingly. “We don’t use modern machinery to mass produce. We rely on individual hands, Elain. We missed yours today, in fact we missed it so much we are suffering incredible losses today. People come asking for the pastries they prefer us for and we have to tell them there are not any. We let the customers down, Elain, and we could not tell them why their favorite pastry was unavailable because the baker was… that’s right, why were you not here, Elain?”

_For God’s sake it’s just croissants_ , Elain thinks while arranging her face into what she hopes resembles employee guilt and remorse.

“A meeting with the staff after school,” she replies.

“And you could not have notified us about your planned absence?”

_It’s just croissants. Stop talking like you’re holy._ “Unplanned one,” lies Elain. “I found out today.”

“And the other teachers were able to attend despite the short notice?”

Elain pulls a tight smile. “None of the other teachers have a second job.”

Ianthe returns the tight smile. “That’s not our business now, is it?”

Elain comes out of the office seething so much that if she were in a cartoon like the ones Winnie watches, her face would be beet red and steam would be emitted from her ears and her head would be twice the size of her body. Ianthe told her Elain wouldn’t be doing the job she was hired for –which was baking- but instead she’ll be cleaning up the mess that came from her letting the business down. Which meant heavy lifting sacks of ingredients, washing dishes, cleaning stations and the floors. She’ll be lucky if she makes it home at ten. On top of that, Ianthe is docking money off her pay.

Cerridwen is wearing her expression of silent sympathy when Elain walks into the large kitchen, chocolate brown eyes meeting Elain’s from across the room before she turns her attention to her dough. Inhaling deeply, Elain gets to work.

There’s a new delivery of flour and sugar arrived that needs moving into the storage room so she heaves one sack of flour on her back after the other, walking hunchbacked to move the load. She goes back and forth, muscles straining, back protesting, sweating profusely and spine threatening to snap.

Elain likes to think she’s honest with herself at least; if Elain can’t have the peace with her life that she runs after, she can have it with herself. She’s a level headed person who seeks maturity and civil relationships with everyone around her, including her ex-husband Graysen.

She doesn’t like to carry resentment around with her, doesn’t like carrying the past with her at all. There are so many grudges to hold onto, she doesn’t have enough hands to do so and as a result, some days are easier than others of unexpressed anger and crippling waves of sadness.

Most days all Elain needs is the smile from her baby to remind her that every sweat and tear is worth it- for that baby girl she hardly ever sees. For her, Elain would think as tears brim her eyes and exhaustion threatens to knock her out.

But other days, like today, are just not working for her. Even she has to concede to that. Elain just wants this to be over already; this bumpy episode of her life needs to reach the credits so it can be forgotten. Elain wants to go back to those quiet monotonous days of routine where her biggest worry was the new topics she plans on teaching and if Graysen had fixed the car or her plants were watered or not.

God, she just wants it to be over. _Please, please, please,_ she drops the final flour sack next to the others and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. _Please be over. Let it just end._

Evidently not, because as she stands there giving her back a few seconds to recover, one of the sacks stored in the back tips over and spills onto the floor.

_It’s fine, it’s fine_. She weaves her way over to the back, catching sight of the spilled sugar sack. She carefully grabs the edges and with a grunt pulls it upright, coughing through white dust. With her hands, she gathers it close as much as she can, frowning at the texture of the sugar when she rubs her fingers together. It’s much finer than the sugar they use but coarser than powdered sugar which is what she initially assumed upon catching sight of it. There’s a floral smell in the air and just the tint of chemicals.

Frown deepening and brow wrinkling, Elain sniffs her dusted hands tentatively and catches the faint whiff of the same smell on her hands. She brings her hands closer to her nose, exhaling heavily to inhale again-

“Heyy,” a voice jumps her from behind as a hand clasps her shoulder. Freddie is giving her an easy grin, looking around the mess quickly. “Why don’t you leave this to me to clean up? You take a break.”

Dusting off her hands, Elain gets off her knees. She gestures the teenager to the mess on the floor. “Be my guest.”

___________

The minute Elain steps inside her house, the thing she immediately notices is the smell of a home-cooked meal.

It’s a stupid thought, but it’s the one thing in her head as she drops her purse and bag on the floor and steps out of her boots in the hallway. She can’t remember the last time she walked inside her house and smelled the homely warm scent of spices and food. She shrugs off her coat, bleary eyed and smelling of cleaning products. The handles on her wristwatch tell her it’s 10:10PM.

“Mama is here, Winnie,” she hears a deep voice from the living room that precedes the banshee screaming and excited running of her two-year-old. Her heart swells and she can’t keep a grin restrained.

“MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!” chants Winnie as she runs out the living room to the hallway, the brightest of beams on her face that impossibly widens when she sees her.

Elain is running towards her daughter before she can think about it –Gosh, today was so long. She can’t wait to erase it from her memories- a squeal escaping her as Winnie throws her arms around her and Elain swings her up in the air, peppering her face with kisses over and over and crushing her to her chest.

“Oh baby, I missed you so much. How are you? Let me look at you. Oh my baby, I’m so sorry to leave you!” coos Elain, Winnie’s arms around her neck a strangling bear hug but Elain cannot think of having it any other way. Her eyes and nose sting and a lump forms in her throat.

This is home, she finds herself thinking. This bright toothy grin and those hazel eyes and this bear hug and this happiness. This blabbering of a toddler that no one can understand but Elain- she hangs onto every word that spills excitedly from Winnie’s lips, nods, eyes locked with hers, drinks in every word with the fervor of a thirsty man wandering the desert plains.

Winnie talks a lot, and Elain can decipher everything she wants to convey.

_I missed you,  
I like my new friend,   
We played all day,   
Don't leave me,   
I love you,   
Don’t leave me like that,   
I missed you,   
The food is tasty,   
Please don’t leave me._

“Give Mama a kiss,” Elain is bestowed immediately with wet ones on both cheeks and she showers her toddler with double the amount. When she finds it in herself to glance away from Winnie, her eyes fall on the tall man standing in the doorway of the living room. She offers him a small smile on principle.

Until she sees his arm in a sling.

She steps forward, smile slipping off her face, freeing one arm to extend it towards him. “Elain. It’s.. Lovely to meet you again.”

“Azriel. Likewise,” he briefly clasps her hand in his cold scarred one and withdraws it. Somewhere in Elain’s mind she’s thinking that she shouldn’t be ogling his arm that’s in a cast and sling but the majority of her mind is screaming “ _It’s in a cast!_ ” at her.

“Your arm,” she stammers out, setting Winnie down on her feet. “What- I didn’t know it was hurt.”

Suddenly it makes more sense to her; the time off work. It’s for his injury- and Rhys volunteered him to babysit a two-year-old? How on earth had he agreed to do it? How did he manage-?

“It’s fine,” says Azriel. “It’s my left arm.”

“Wh…” she gapes. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s wrong with it?”

Hesitance diffuses across his expression as he scratches a thick eyebrow. “I broke it.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Winnie is clutching her mother’s pants tightly while watching their interaction. Elain reaches for her bag and digs for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

She misses the way his face blanks. “Beg your pardon?”

“How much do I owe you?” she repeats. Meeting his eyes, a warm feeling washes over her, down her aching spine like hot water in a bath; a dark starry sky, slow-dancing with Graysen to no music in the heat of the South African summer night as flies buzz over their heads around the lights, a quiet empty street in the dead of night, running to the grocery store at 2AM with Nesta for ice cream and chips, late hours spent in the university library, early mornings in their garden back home. She shakes it away quickly; she hasn’t thought of those for years. “For babysitting.”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“You spent your whole day off-!”

“Elain,” says Azriel steadily and seriously. “Put your wallet away.”

“I’m serious, Azriel.”

“So am I. This wasn’t a job. I’m just helping out. Put it away, keep your money.”

“Mama, Mama,” Winnie tugs on Elain’s pants when she lowers her purse. She points at Azriel when Elain looks down at her. “Azeel.”

Elain rubs her fair head, “Is Azriel your new friend? Did you have a good time with him today?”

Winnie nods eagerly. “Azeel!”

“I have to get going,” Azriel says pleasantly, holding out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you and Winnie.”

“Likewise,” Elain shakes his hand with a bright smile. “Thank you so much for looking after her. I’m sorry to keep you this late.”

He gives her a brief smile before crouching down in front of Winnie and holding his palm forward. “Bye, Winnie.”

The toddler eagerly smacks his large palm with her own tiny hand over and over. “Azeel! Bye bye! Bye bye!”

He ruffles her hair and stands straight. With a smile, Elain steps aside to let him pass and grab his jacket from the hanger in the entryway. Winnie runs after him waving and repeating “Bye bye, Azeel! Bye bye!”

Just as he opens the door and steps outside into the cold night, he hesitates and turns around. “Do you have someone to look after her tomorrow? I’m free for a month, if you don’t have anyone to look after her.”

Elain glances between him and her grinning toddler. “I don’t want to ask too much.”

“I’m the one offering.”

She rubs her forehead, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Hand on the doorknob, he expectantly looks at her quietly while Winnie tries to dissect the silence that has descended over them. Elain doesn’t have anyone to look after Winnie while she works her two jobs; Feyre’s out of the question for the moment –that reminds her to check up on her sister- and Elain can’t manage to afford to hire a nanny either.

“All right,” she nods finally. “Okay. But remember that you offered. And just till Feyre gets better.”

“Do you mind if I bring my cat?” he asks as a smile blooms on smooth lips. “And she’s fine spending all day alone, really, if you do.”

Elain smiles faintly, a tired smile, and shrugs. “I don’t mind. Fair warning, though, Winnie loves animals, so she’ll probably take her for her own if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll be sure to watch out,” he tips his head in farewell. “Goodnight, Elain.”

Her hands settle over Winnie’s shoulders as the front door snugly fits in its frame with a gentle snap. “Goodnight, Azriel.”

Walking into her house, she is utterly gobsmacked: this isn’t the home she left this morning. The living room is cleaned up, the coffee table clear of any objects, the floor barren of toys that are all packed neatly into the box by the television set, the cushions in place and the two soft blankets folded over the arm of a couch. The kitchen looks transformed; not a single dish is out, the table is wiped down, Winnie’s high chair is cleaned, the counter is empty of dirty dishes, the pots and pans are all washed, there is a large serving bowl of lukewarm pasta set on the table that tastes heavenly when Elain takes a bite- this isn’t her home. Her home is cluttered and stresses her and is messy and unorganized.

He did that. Literally single handed.

“Did you eat, baby?” Elain asks, helping herself to another bite of the spaghetti and fighting off a moan of ecstasy.

“Yeah,” Winnie nods. “I ook and Azeel.”

“You made this? It tastes wonderful.” Elain crouches to her kid’s height and kisses her plump cheek. “Thank you, baby. Did you like Azriel?”

Her daughter then launches what Elain calls a Toddler PowerPoint presentation in which Winnie makes her case regarding her newest adult friend. It's all backed up by hand gestures and high pitched screeches of delight while Elain washes her hands and exchanges their clothes for pyjamas –Winnie follows her around, insisting on giving her lecture to the end- and serves herself some of the heavenly food to satisfy the beast of starvation going on a rampage in her stomach.

Elain plops onto the couch of the sitting room, turns on the television to a reality show and puts her slipper-clad feet up on the coffee table. She pulls Winnie up on the couch next to her, wraps an arm around the girl curling herself in her mother’s side and sets the bowl in her lap.

“I missed you,” Elain strokes the hair of the head against her breast. “Did you miss me, too?”

Winnie nods, further snuggling in the cocoon of Elain’s side.

“I love you,” Elain teaches her softly, pressing a kiss to her fair head. “Do you love me too?”

“Uhu!” Winnie sits up excitedly. “Play Pinky?”

Clapping her hands together once, Elain nods and swipes her feet off the table. “Yes! Go fetch Pinky and Bunny!”

Watching her run out of the living room to fetch the plushies they consistently play with, a smile stretches Elain’s lips before she has another spoonful of the spaghetti and refrains from rolling her eyes back in her head. _So good. So, so good._ She picks up her phone and dials her sister’s number. It takes Feyre the duration of thirty seconds to answer with a hoarse and faint voice.

“I’m dying,” she greets Elain.

“Finally I can have your dresses,” Elain turns down the volume of the television, tucking her legs beneath her. “Which one do you want to be buried in?”

Feyre laughs, a pitiful one compared to her usual laughter. “You know which. How was Az?”

“I’m convinced you sent a magician to look after my daughter. He cooked and cleaned and played with her. Single handedly. Which brings me to the bone I’m picking with Rhys, did you know his arm is in a cast?”

“Duh, what kind of a friend do you think I am?” scoffs Feyre. “Az is just like that. He can’t sit still and do nothing. Keeping him cooped up with nothing to do is poison to him. This was a kindness for him.”

“How on earth is looking after a toddler kindness?”

“I don’t know, he says he hates being cooped up with his thoughts. A couple of months ago he lost his friend, I think this is how he deals with the grief.”

“Oh,” Winnie runs into the living room and catapults herself at Elain. “Ow! Ok, ok, baby calm down. So how’re you? What did the doctors say?”

“They decided to monitor me. I’m staying for a few days. You know how it is, the beds here missed me so much that they just can’t stand my absence for long. Rhys is complaining about the healthcare system, I tell him to shove it and just pay up.”

“Well we don’t all have something lovely like the NHS. What about Felix?”

“He’s here, driving the nurses insane. I tried disciplining him but how much can a kid stand being in a hospital?”

“Why don’t you bring him over to stay with me while you’re there? It’ll be easier for you and Rhys. Winnie misses Felix.”

As if on cue, she perks up and tugs at Elain’s arm calling her cousin’s name repeatedly. Grinning, Elain takes Bunny from Winnie, smoothing over the toy’s fur. “I can drop him off at his preschool before work.”

“I’ll think about it,” replies Feyre. “What are you doing with Winnie tomorrow?”

“Azriel’s looking after her.”

Silence is the reply from Feyre for a long while before she clears her throat. “Really? Wh- I didn’t- why?”

“He volunteered,” shrugged Elain. “No reason for me to say no, really.”

“I’m surprised, pleasantly. I get from Az that he doesn’t like strangers in his life.”

“I really didn’t pressure him to do this another time. He just offered.”

“Hmm…”

“What?”

“What?”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“Thing? What thing?”

“The thing you do when Suriel tells you something you didn’t expect. You’re mentally preparing a list.”

“List? What? No I’m not! What list?”

“You’re bored.”

“Of course I am!” snaps Feyre. “I’m going through another episode of this bullshit, I’m already bored of it.”

“Good, cause you’ll love to hear about the bakery today..”


	6. Chapter 6

Of the three cities that make up the state of Velaris, Windhaven City is the smallest. It’s a city tucked between Hewn city and the chain of mountains that Velaris is most famous for. It’s also where Azriel’s current home is: an apartment in the center of the busy city that never sleeps, half an hour away from his workplace. Two years ago, he moved out from living with Charles in Hewn, the only criteria in his head for his new place being as far away from his brother and somewhere close to necessary facilities.

When he moved in, though he doesn’t like asking Rhys and Cassian for favours, they showed up. For two precious days, they were high school seniors again; Rhys, a man without his heavy responsibilities, Azriel without his baggage, and Cassian unbroken by the crimes of war. All of them whole as they were, as much as they possibly could have been; three boys holding onto each other with hopeful dreams and firm promises to never leave each other before the world ripped them apart. 

Rhys asked no questions when Azriel knocked on his door with his car packing his belongings; Rhys made no mention of the fight they had, didn’t acknowledge the words Azriel had screamed at him and ushered him inside saying nothing, but the silent look of approval on his face spoke volumes. Azriel stayed with him and his family for a month spent hunting down places of his own. He ended up in a nice apartment offered to him at an affordable rent. Rhys helped him secure the deal and with Cassian moved him in.

He’s proud of his place: two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room and a small kitchen. It’s not much, but the views through the windows are right off poster cards, picturesque sceneries of Velaris’s prized mountains that are most glorious during the dark night, glittering with lights wounding hiking paths and the aerial tramways delivering tourists to the attractions on the top of the mountains. They are large, towering and formidable but they give him a sense of security whenever he looks at them from his balcony. As a child, he made the analogy between them and a protective embrace and he has yet to shake it off from his thoughts when he looks at them.

A large balcony attached to the kitchen where he sits with Rebel is his favourite spot to be in. There’s freedom in the high velocity wind that whips at his face there, relieving him of his current stresses. It carries the scent of the evergreen trees furnishing the mountains, his apartment a permanent smell of cedar and pine. From his balcony, he can see the chain of mountains at the edges, the sprawling city and neighbouring towns spread out between them and faintly make out the large bridge that links Hewn to Windhaven over the branch of the Sidra river. Sometimes he sits here, enjoying the ambient quiet atmosphere softly coloured with the sounds of traffic and people going about their daily business. He’s both equally isolated from the world and in touch with it; the balance he deeply craves.

It’s not much, but with his rescued cat he confidently calls it home: all he ever needs. Him and Rebel, together against the world. He likes that. 

Windhaven was once his home, the city he was born in and raised. He had explored it with Rhys on their bicycles during the warm summers, roaming the streets and claiming them as their own with Cassian and Mor by their sides. Azriel had a rickety start in his life, one that robbed him of normalcy and understanding, but he remembers those days fondly; ice cream melting in his scarred hands, Cassian and Rhys bickering by the river banks and shoving each other into it, Mor teaching him to skip stones on the water surface, the warm sunlight on his skin. Windhaven was once home, but it wasn’t for long years after he moved to Hewn and reconnected with Charles. 

He’s been back for two years, the way the city has changed yet remained the same as it is shocking him and warming his heart. There’s a comfort in the mountains remaining as they are, the streets as he remembers, memories tucked in pockets of stores and in nooks and crannies; memories he relives watery eyed and breathless. 

That night after leaving Elain’s place, his apartment building is quiet save for the hum of the walls and the LED shop lights hanging from the ceiling when he parks his car and steps into the state of the art lobby, briefly checking his mailbox. That’s another thing he likes about this complex: aside from the complex being new with functional facilities, it’s quiet and safe. His building is marketed towards smaller families and couples so there’s a scarcity of children around to interrupt the peace of the eldlerly inhabitants and couples. It’s not the type of abode to appeal to lively families and children; the architecture of the place focuses on function and sleek modern design, from the neutral darker colours and comfortable furniture in the lobby to the paintings on the wall and clean fresh carpets. Air fresheners are constantly plugged in throughout the building floors and the cleaners come round every other day. 

His floor is soundless as he strolls to his apartment at one end of the hallway, trainer-clad feet muffled against patterned carpet, quietly unlocking his door in crisp clicks of his keys and stepping inside. Turning on the warm yellow light of the entryway, he closes the door with a soft snap as he steps out of his shoes. The minute he puts his keys in his pocket again, a loud mewl rises and a ball of fur on all fours comes running at him from the dark and latches with clipped claws onto his legs, digging into the cuffs of his jeans with pricking sensations in his legs.

A wide grin graces his face when she does. He crouches down at once and picks her up, her claws scratching his skin before they find purchase in his shirt at his chest. Rebel looks him in the eyes with her own unreadable pair, her body shaking in his hands, and meows accusingly at him.

“Hey,” he says softly, stroking Rebel’s fur. “Hey, there. I missed you too. I’m sorry I left before you woke up. But you wouldn’t have liked me waking you, right? Aw, stop shaking, I’m here. I’m sorry, Rebel.”

She meows again, looking up at his face, eyes flickering over his features. He likes to think she’s searching him for injuries. Azriel smiles back at her when they linger over the healing bruise on his face.

Azriel doesn’t have many things to seek refuge to in his life: his biological family abused him for eight years, his biological mother is more absent than fairytale figures, he’s been mentally delayed, emotionally abused, and adopted by a loving family he never felt that he belonged to. He’s never had the sense of ownership and identity to anything. 

However, it’s all irrelevant. It’s all insignificant as he stands in the entryway of his own apartment and the cat he rescued a year ago looking at him like they’re promising one another _‘you’re my family_ ’. He gets that feeling of belonging. His. _You’re my family,_ Rebel’s face tells him. _I am yours._

He buries his face in her neck, fur soft against his skin smelling like the rest of the apartment with her lovely shampoo and the air fresheners, and he smiles toothily. “I’ll never leave you.”

Rebel purrs.

* * *

_Incoming call  
_ _Morrigan :)_

Azriel glances at the time while his phone rings. It’s not like her to call this late- more appropriately, it’s not like her lately. For a long time now, Azriel’s been getting an emotional whiplash from Mor that’s driven holes in their friendship. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but whenever he tries to ask Mor anything remotely personal in regards to either of them she either changes the subject or looks like a tortured animal until he stops trying.

For someone who made an oath to look after his friends more, they make it extremely hard to. He sometimes just wants a straight answer from them. _No, I’m not okay_. Or _I have no clue why but everything feels wrong_. He’s not a shrink and he can’t offer them a plan to solve their problems, but he just wants them to know he’s there for them to help. But he can’t do that, because the last time he texted Rhys and Cassian that they both responded with something along the lines of “r u drunk” and “im confused, is this you coming out?” and if he wants to be there for Mor he has to wait for her to come seek him.

Which is what she’s doing now. Seeking him out.

He runs his wrist several times over Rebel’s fur, watching his phone buzz next to him on the couch of the living room while Trevor Noah talks on the TV. He contemplates ignoring her and resuming watching _The Daily Show_ , to give her a taste of what it’s like trying to get ahold of her. But he’s better than that. He wants to be, at least.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Az!”

Fuck, she’s drunk. It’s never a fun thing to try and talk to her when she’s tipsy. She’s perky, cheerful and her voice high pitched - the lie of it all grates on his nerves. People are already a puzzle, people who twist their feelings and hide behind coping mechanisms make him want to slam his head into the wall. Especially if they’re his friends. Especially if they’re his oldest friends.

“Hey,” he says softly, pausing the episode on the television. “You’re a bitch.”

She pauses briefly then starts laughing like an old crone. In response to the shrill sound he cringes immediately, holding the phone at arm’s length while lowering the volume. “Well shit, what did I do?”

“Not be a friend at all,” he replies. “I get my ass handed to me and I don’t hear from you at all?”

“What?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes seriously, what? What happened to you?”

He blinks. Rhys texted the group chat to tell them what happened when he got taken to the hospital and he was called. Azriel’s sure, mostly because he and Cassian spent an hour texting when he woke up and Rhys sent a cursed image of him knocked out in the hospital with his bruised face and his arm in a cast that involves his exhausted sleeping face and mouth hanging open. “Three days ago. I got my ass handed to me by a serial killer. Broke, stabbed _and_ dislocated my shoulder. I got bruises all over and my arm’s in a cast.”

“Oh jeez, I didn’t know,” she answers offhandedly. “I haven’t checked my phone in a while. I haven’t been feeling well.”

His heart sinks.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Man, everything’s depressing. I just… Ugh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she groans. “Work’s too much. I burnt my dinner today and had to order a second takeout.”

Azriel fixes his stare on his hand. He’ll give it a try. “Yeah, that’s what you say when there’s too much to unpack. What’s the matter? Is… is something bothering you? What can I do?”

She shuts up for several moments before she starts to giggle. He slaps his hand to his face.

“You want everything to be deep and meaningful. I’m just having a bad day. It’s not even that bad, Azzy.”

He hates that nickname; she used it in college when he’d had the fattest crush on her. She makes him feel like an inadequate child around her too many times for comfort, even when he’s the older of them technically. Being called that reminds him of the timid, confused and flustered boy he was and of the people who taught him his name in the first place.

“You’re talking to the man who has insomnia. I’m saying that our minds love overthinking. If you tell someone what’s wrong then you’ll realise-”

“What is this, mental health awareness week?”

He really fucking hates her when she’s drunk.

“I’m saying that I’m here for you,” he digs his nails deep in his palm. “If you want to talk. Or you just want to have fun.”

“You’re so perfect,” she says with a melodramatic sigh. “Seriously. Caring, cute, good job, have a rescue pet, respectful, strong. You’re just perfect.”

He can’t help himself, it slips through: “Are you trying to convince yourself that?”

He hears her sit up abruptly, and her voice is ten times sharper. “I’ve always known you’re the best of us all. I know Cass teases you a lot about everything you ever do but you shouldn’t let it get to you. You’re great, Azzy.”

Stuffing his knuckles into his mouth, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Why are you calling so late?”

“I missed you, and your voice,” she answers truthfully. “I figured you’d be up since you’re busted up.”

The thing about his friends is that they don’t seem to realise he’s chosen to become a detective for a reason. That being is that he picks up everything, the inferred and the clear, and actually listens to things around him. It’s a trait he obtained every time the door to the basement opened. For someone who didn’t understand anything when everything seemed to understand each other, he was keen to also comprehend, understand, fit in. And it stuck with him into adulthood.

He runs his hand through his hair and decides to let it slide, like everything else when it regards Mor. If he’s going to take her lies personally they won’t even be civil. There’s still some space left in the bottle labelled _Mor’s Bullshit I Have To Deal With_. “I missed you too. Do you want to go out?”

Mor goes incredibly silent, prompting him to think she hung up on him.

“Sorry?”

He tugs his hair roughly. “Do you want to go out sometime? I don’t know your schedule, but I’m free this month.”

“Isn’t your arm in a cast?”

“So?”

“I, uh, sure! I’d love to. Do I tell Cass or did you already?”

He resists the strong urge to hurl his phone at the wall. “I didn’t. Tell him if you want.” _Try getting out of that_ , he thinks triumphantly then feels a wave of self-hatred crash over him. He’s not trying to corner her into something uncomfortable. And yet, she doesn’t make things easy: what does she want? That’s the question of the century. What does Morrigan Garcia want from him? 

“Okay,” she replies. “How’s my baby Rebel by the way?

"Good. I missed her appointment with the vet.”

“You monster! Why?”

“Work.”

“You’re a vile disgusting workaholic. How could you?”

“Says the woman who’s been leaving her job every day three hours later. Oh, I don’t know, Morrigan, maybe because a serial killer is going around killing underage kids and my cat’s vet appointment couldn’t fit in my schedule?”

“How did you know that?”

“Detective, remember?”

“Seriously?”

“No, your assistant just told me.”

“Oh.. You still should have given her to me to take.”

He can’t find an answer to that and falls quiet, trying to pin down what exactly he’s been doing wrong to warrant her strange treatment. It’s like she alters between hating him and liking him on the contrary to the close relationship they had several years ago.

Silence ensues on the line between them. He wishes with all his heart that it’s comfortable like the silence that used to take place for hours, but it’s not. It’s awkward, heavily weighed and stuffed with unsaid words. The unsaid words are his fault; he’s never worded his feelings to her appropriately.

“Mor-“

“Yeah?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

It’s a testimony to how much he knows her that he can envision her seated next to him on his couch, arms around her knees and her eyes glum in that sadness he only ever glimpsed once in high school and hadn’t understood properly. Azriel was naturally attracted to Mor since the day he met her, not because she was pretty –he hadn’t yet formed standards for that- but because she was the one who seemed would be able to understand and help him the most. 

For a majority of their time together there, she had. She had looked at him as her pet project so he was beyond relieved that someone who understood him and the world was looking out for him to realize eventually there was only so much she could put on her plate.

Guilt still nags him when he thinks of himself back then, the incompetent person he’d been. Mrs Blackwood had told him not to blame himself, and so he hadn’t, but it doesn’t discredit the fact that he is the cord that tangled Mor’s life. She would have found something to twist her life eventually, he thinks that is inevitable in regards to her personality, but it still saddens him that it happened to be him.

“What?” she breathes softly.

He repeats his question, fainter this time with less surety.

“No. Why would you think that? Who makes you feel like that? Don’t listen to them.”

“Mor, I meant that - did I do something to upset you? I know I’m an asshole so I want to know if I hurt you with anything.”

“What? What? No!”

“Why do you do this then? I don’t underst-“ he catches himself from falling into that old habit. He sits a bit straighter. “I want to know. Tell me.”

“Oh, Azzy, I’d love to talk but my dinner’s burning, I’ll talk to you later. Good night!”

She hangs up on him without giving him a chance to respond. Azriel stares in contempt at his phone screen before he tosses it away from him on the couch. Rebel looks silently at him when he meets her eyes.

“This woman’s a fucking mystery.”

* * *

The following morning, he wakes up extra early despite going on little sleep. Rebel’s curled up in the crook of his right arm, contently sleeping in the warmth. He forgot to warm the apartment when he came back last night and as a result, there was little difference between it and the outside cold weather. Before getting up, he pulls the blanket over Rebel apologetically then makes his way to the bathroom.

The bruise on his jaw and cheek has died down to a painful yellow and green colour on his brown skin and it’s extremely tender to the touch when he washes his face. Doing anything single-handed is difficult and exhausting, but his wrist isn’t as badly hurt as his shoulder so he can at least use his fingers while his arm’s immobilized. He was instructed not to shower alone, and Rhys promised him sweet slow death if he showered when no one was with him in the apartment and so he has to make do with washing up.

He misses his showers.

Rebel is still asleep by the time he comes back to the room and pulls out warmer clothing from his closet; Elain’s house was freezing yesterday. Before waging battle with his clothes and attempting to get out of his nightwear, he takes a look at the dreary grey weather outside. It doesn’t look like it will rain, and yet the clouds are gloomy and the wind harsh if the steep angles that the trees and plants take are any indication. When he manages to get into his jeans, thick hoodie and into the confusing binding wrap for his arm, he grabs Rebel’s soft blanket and wraps her in it, gently picking her up and settling her in his sling.

It’s an early 7:00 AM when he grabs his laptop and keys and makes the arduous journey out of his apartment to his car. Rebel doesn’t stir at all throughout the car drive, instead, the heat makes her snuggle close as he drives to Elain’s waking neighborhood, her breathing a steady comfort against his beating heart, calming him. 

The wind is biting cold as he hurries face down to the front door and the same part of his brain tries to find reason in his usual decisions regarding his clothing. _Buy a fucking scarf you asshole_ , he thinks –not for the first time- at himself but will he ever buy a scarf? The day he buys a scarf is the day he abandons Rebel to a hoard of crazy cat ladies. 

Before he can ring the bell, the door swings open violently with a gust of wind. Elain’s head peeks out from behind the door and beams at him, wisps of hair fluttered in her face and her cheeks tinted red as she catches her breath, immediately flapping her hand in welcoming gestures. He quickly steps inside, helping her close the door against the sudden gust of wind against them. 

“Good-” she starts to say until a loud mighty cry sharply pierces the air, one that Azriel knows all too well.

“Uncle Az!” Felix bellows from the top of the stairs dressed in his robot pyjamas with Winnie beside him before he runs down them faster than Usain Bolt, leaping at Azriel, hugging his legs. Winnie follows, taking one sweet slow step at a time, clutching the railing tightly. The three of them share the same puffy eyed look and the ruffled bed hair, dressed in their pyjamas ranging from grey sweatpants and white sweater to a pink and yellow set, all of them crowded into the entryway of the house where Azriel abandons his laptop bag and shoes by the umbrella stand behind the door, hesitant to track dirt and dust onto the pale carpet of the hallway.

“Hey, Superman!” he grins at his nephew, briefly giving him a one-armed hug before they share a fist bump. “What are you doing here?”

“Mom let me sleepover!” He yells as he lets go, shaking like an electrocuted child, jumping up and down. “We had so much fun!”

Rebel stirs against his chest. “All right, all right, turn it down a notch, superhero.”

He meets Elain’s eyes again and gives her a smile. “Is this too early?”

“Not at all, come in,” she gestures down the hallway up which a scent of pancakes drifts to his nostrils. “Felix’s staying with us for a while. I’m taking him to preschool. Cassian will bring him back here. Don’t worry, you don’t have to look after him-”

Another high pitched screech pierces their eardrums as they take a step down the hallway towards the kitchen. Winnie’s finally made it down the stairs and she’s excitedly hopping on her feet with Felix. When she sees Azriel, the utmost joy that lights up her face stuns him still.

“Azeel!” She comes running and hopping to him in the weird run toddlers make, pink pajamas, bedhair and puffy eyes and morning breath and she holds up her arms expectantly. Stunned, he bends and picks her up, receiving a warm hug and her setting her head on his shoulder. Elain _aw_ ’s, patting her kid’s back.

“Morning Winnie,” he bids her, small arms looped around his neck. She mumbles something incoherent and gives his neck a squeeze before letting him go. He puts her down, watching her scurry to Felix’s side.

“I’m making breakfast,” says Elain as they walk to the kitchen and step inside the warm room. “I hope you didn’t have yours yet?”

“We’re having pancakes!” Booms Felix in a deep voice in the doorway then proceeds to break out in a dance involving him shaking his bum and jumping up and down. Elain laughs before pouring the pancake mix into the pan, a few ready pancakes dished out on the vivid green and yellow plates and the two white ceramic plates.

“All right, listen up, let’s play a game,” Azriel announces to the two kids and at once they go berserk at the favored word. “It’s called Who Can Stay Quiet The Longest While We Eat Breakfast.”

Felix immediately narrows his eyes, “That’s a trick! Daddy uses it to make me shut up, he said that to Mommy.”

“Yeah, but does Daddy play it during breakfast?” Azriel tells him, brow wrinkled as he’s pointing out the obvious. Felix looks stumped and shakes his head. “Then it’s not the same. You’re allowed to say in a normal voice-only seven words. If you speak more than seven words you lose and if you say anything in a loud voice, you lose. Right, three, two, one, go.”

Felix clamps his mouth shut but it doesn’t stop him from expressing his thoughts non-verbally by means of a chicken dance and some shoulder wiggling. Winnie looks at them bewildered before she offers Azriel a grin and laughs the laugh Azriel’s learned to recognize as her ‘ _I haven’t a clue what’s going on but I’m going to laugh because it’s the safest option’_ laugh. Felix immediately points an accusatory finger at her. Azriel shakes his head- that doesn’t count.

“He’s clever,” Elain says softly to Azriel while he stands next to her and turns his attention back to her. “He picks up on everything we say. Last night, he woke up crying that Feyre’s dying. I told him she was just joking when she said that to me and he wouldn’t believe me until I explained to him how adults joke.”

Azriel looks back at his nephew doing the worm dance on the floor with Winnie giggling at him. “He’s a good boy.”

Elain nods, flipping one of the pancakes. “Oh! Didn’t you say you’re bringing your cat?”

He points to his sling. “She’s sleeping.”

“Kitty?!” Felix vehemently whispers, coming towards Azriel. “Is that Rebby?”

The soft bulge in his sling moves. Azriel gently pulls her out while she yawns and mewls. Felix aw’s at her and Winnie tugs at Azriel’s jeans to see. He crouches down on the kitchen floor, showing them the waking cat in his arm. Elain bends over his shoulder to get a closer look, strands of her hair tickling his neck and she echoes Felix’s endearment. She’s close enough that he catches the smell of her shampoo and her body wash, a pleasant perfume smell of some generic brand he can’t put a finger on. It smells great.

Felix hesitantly reaches out to pet Rebel, small fingers touching her fur and patting her down before he giggles at the funny texture. Winnie’s gripping Azriel’s good shoulder, peering curiously at the cat who now blinks awake, four faces peering down at her.

Elain straightens and goes back to making the pancakes, taking with her a hazy sort of magic that had settled over him. Shaking his head, he stands up and sets Rebel on the kitchen table. She glares at him as she wakes up.

“I’ll be back today earlier,” Elain tells him while she dishes out the pancakes onto the plates and he puts Winnie in her high chair. “And I realize that I missed grocery shopping this week. Since you won’t take payment, why don’t you tag along with us and I’ll get your favourite snacks? Oh, there’s coffee there if you drink it.”

He pours the drink into two mugs and makes hers according to her instructions. One sugar and cream. He takes his black, no sugar.

“I don’t need anything-”

“It’s a thank you,” she insists. “Looking after Winnie’s tough. It’s nice to have your favourite food with you.”

He shrugs. “Sure, why not.”

She smiles gently at him before it disappears behind a thin curtain of unbound hair. Azriel stares, thinking somewhere in his mind that maybe she’s supposed to have her hair tied back. But the thought is drowned as he stares, standing still by the stove, the voices of the children and Rebel muffled and incoherent like he has water blocking his ears. 

He blinks, trying to shake the feeling off when it refuses to subside as Elain pours more pancake batter. He looks at the counter-top instead; picking up smudges of chocolate and spilled flour by the sink, the egg carton and the fingerprints on it from wet fingertips, the tracks on the kitchen floor by the pattern of the legs of the chairs, and the grease smudges on the pan’s handle.

He looks back at Elain, and- nothing. Nothing. He panics, shaking his head, and looks again. _Focus_ , he tells himself. He looks at her unbound hair, stares at the colour of it and the beautiful way the strands seem to alter between brown and golden in the bright warm sunshine coming in through the window. It looks so soft, Elain’s previous proximity telling him it smells as wonderful as it looks, and his hand suddenly twitches with an irresistible unprecedented need to tuck the strands behind her ear, maybe even smooth it behind her shoulder. He catches himself studying the straight slant of her nose. Her eyes are of a round cut, late nights on YouTube making him compare them to a fawn’s tantalizing brown eyes. 

_You fucking sleep-deprived idiot_ , he admonishes himself, pressing the heels of his hand to his eyes and rubbing them roughly. _What is wrong with you?_

His inability to sleep has led him to venture into different aspects of art and life: paintings, art conservation videos, sculpture making, knitting, movie analysis, book discussions, TV shows, comedy YouTube reaction channels and even foreign videos in a language he doesn’t understand but raptly watches them due to their mesmerizing content. And yet, he’s never touched poetry.

Looking at Elain, her creamy skin and the tired slant of her lips even as she tries to hold a smile that falters every now and then, an annoying high pitched pompous voice in his head goes: _My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun._

Horrified, Azriel stands straighter, internally screaming at the sonnet that the small voice won’t shut up about, a sonnet he hadn’t read or listened to since being tutored at home but had memorized with all his heart. _Why, why, why,_ he panics. _Fuck off! Whatever! Whatever!_

He realizes Elain’s soft lips are moving and that he hasn’t heard anything she said. Tightening his grip on the warm mug of coffee, he stares down the black swirling drink and quickly gulps down a large dose. _Wake the fuck up,_ he frantically thinks. _You’re never meeting people sleep deprived again._

“Sorry?” he clears his throat. “I zoned out.”

Elain flips a pancake with a practiced movement of her wrist. His eyes latch onto it and the thin bracelet on it, the veins apparent through her pale skin and her thin bones forming a delicate wrist. He looks away, feeling uncomfortable and his neck hot. She gives him a knowing understanding look.

“I was saying that today doesn’t look like there is a bit of sun.”

There isn’t? Where had that warm sunshine come from a moment ago-? He looks again at Elain, then the window and the gloomy grey sky above. No sunshine, right. He’d had to turn on his car lights on his way here. He rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots and putting it into place.

“It’s cold,” he says through a dry mouth. “You should dress warmly. Be careful not to catch a cold. Take a scarf.”

_And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare-_

Azriel quickly shuts out that voice, bringing her coffee to the table and passing the yellow plate to Winnie in her high chair when Elain finishes the last pancake. 

Felix claps his hands together when Elain serves him his plate and bows his head. “Namaste.” Azriel gives him a gentle smack to the back of the head. 

“It’s called ‘Thank you’.” 

Felix only giggles like an Evil Overlord and gives Azriel his double chin grin. 

“Twat,” he mutters Rhysand’s favourite nickname for his kid. Felix beams and holds out his hand for the syrup Elain passes him.

Azriel’s not much of a fan of pancakes but Elain passes him a fork and knife and brings out several syrup bottles and he needs to eat to take his meds, so he takes a seat next to Felix, keeping him on his right, across from Elain and Winnie and sips his coffee and takes a bite of the pancake-

And falls in love.

He is well aware of his raging sweet tooth and his unhealthy diet when it comes to anything sweet. He’s been going on a sugar-free diet since the start of the year that he’s only broken twice and this, this heavenly creation reminds him why he loves them so much and why he went on said diet in the first place.

“Good, yeah?” Elain smiles knowingly, pushing a syrup bottle towards him when he blinks at the pancakes. It’s faintly colourless save for a few shades of purple and doesn’t match the label of maple syrup on it. “Lavender,” she tells upon his questioning look. “I made the syrups.”

Felix pokes Azriel’s shoulder, pushing his green plate towards him and pointing at the pancake atop, mouth full. Azriel uncaps it and pours some over the small stack and gets a muffled angry noise when the amount is insufficient in Felix’s eyes.

“Piss off, it’s only 7 o’clock, the sugar will kill you,” Azriel moves the bottle away from the groping sticky fingers of his nephew and pours it over his own pancakes. At Felix’s outraged wide-eyed stare at the amount of syrup, Azriel caps it shut and hands it back to Elain who looks on with amusement.

“Yeah, well, I’m older and get to do what I want because I’m a grown-up.”

Felix’s outraged expression folds in on itself as he concedes to Azriel’s trumping card and harrumphs, going back to his food. Azriel meets Elain’s eyes across the table and shares an amused smile. He looks away, feeling his ears tingle at the warm look in Elain’s eyes and her wide smile, glancing at Winnie instead who’s experimentally handling her pancake.

“This is sinfully great,” he says, eyes on his pancake as he rallies himself to meet her gaze again. “You can make a career out of it.”

Her eyes are twinkling when he meets them again. “I am.”

He blinks before he remembers; bakery, right. She’s a baker, she said so yesterday. He’s pretty sure Rhys mentioned it.

If this was a case he has to work, he’s fucked.

* * *

Nuala doesn’t nag him for the help he promised but didn’t give yet, but she honestly might as well do so.

He brought his laptop with him to Elain’s house because he convinced himself he’d do the work he promised there while Winnie took a nap, and yet as they wrap up playing with Legos in the living room supervised by Rebel on the back of the long couch observing them, Azriel’s done nothing at all for his partner.

Winnie is the same delight as yesterday. She only threw a tantrum for two minutes about Elain and Felix leaving, and she held onto Elain for a few minutes as she cried but he managed to coax her off her mother by asking her if she knew the Tickle Monster. When he held out his arm, she let go of Elain slowly and leaned to him to picked up, her mother flashing him a bright thankful beam before she and Felix hurried out of the house, apparently pressed for time.

His pride wouldn’t admit it, but carrying the girl hurt his broken collarbone and shoulder and he is pretty sure it goes against his doctor’s strict orders. Still, she wanted to be held for several minutes after Elain left and had tightened her arms around his neck, pressing his healing bones. His eyes teared up in pain but he had complied; who could say no to a child whose mother left? Azriel had too much of a soft spot for that.

Rebel studied the girl while they played with Legos, eventually coming down and circling her, putting herself within arm’s reach of Winnie. Azriel taught Winnie how to hold Rebel and how to touch her, and found that Legos was quickly decreasing in terms of interest to Winnie when Rebel let her hold her.

When Winnie naps, Azriel’s head is swimming and turning with dizziness, his medication making him sleepy and too tired for anything. Yet he tries to hold true to his promise and opens up his laptop, sitting with Winnie in the living room who has fallen asleep clutching Rebel to her small chest, who to Azriel’s surprise doesn’t move or refuse the hold. Rebel doesn’t like the people he introduces her to immediately; she lets Feyre scratch her head and Rhys to exist next to her, and she doesn’t claw Cassian’s skin off his muscles or gouge Mor’s eyes out, but that’s about it. Rebel tolerates Feyre the most enough to maybe allow her to hold her and at the bottom of the list is Nuala. Her vet told Azriel to expect her unfriendliness to others, and that she’d be hard to get along; a side effect of her short tortured life as a stray kitten.

Rebel plays rough with him, scratches him and bites him, but it’s never really painful or hurting. He got used to the scratches quickly, especially after she particularly cut him deep in the first few days he took her in. She surprises him with her gentleness around Winnie, her claws nowhere to be seen and her behavior calm.

He shrugs when she meets his eyes and rolls them away. Sometimes she reminds him of Feyre’s other sister, Nesta. He’d met the law lecturer a handful of times, more than he had Elain and remembers her well if only because she’s one of the few who got under the skin of Cassian. Cassian, who didn’t spare Azriel the details of the anger she makes him feel and the rage her cool disinterest puts him in. He says a lot about her during his hourly rants; Azriel has him on semi-permanent mute when it comes to Nesta, mostly because it’s all the same.

His phone rings in his pocket while he loads one of the documents Nuala sent him and –speak of the devil- it’s her calling. Personal number, strange.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry-“

“They made Henry an offer.”

In an instant, his head is clearer and the hair on his skin is standing straighter a little and his heart begins to thump wildly in his chest. “Shit.”

“Which means-“

“They’re onto him. What did he say?”

“He’s an idiot. He said he’d think about it.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. “Who told you?”

“He just called.”

“That asshole!”

“I know.”

“Your phone or the issued?”

“Issued.”

“Fuck.”

“They’re going to make contact with me next and if they know he’s linked to us, they’re making contact with the rest, everyone on the case, especially you. If they connect the dots about you, Az, you are royally fucked.”

He pushes himself to his feet, his panic settling in as his eyes dart frantically around the living room, taking notice of the windows and the exits. 

“Watch out. I’m holding out on the hope that the 18th aren’t as smart as the other six but we both know that’s not true. I don’t want to alarm you, but making contact with Henry means they’re onto him and us,” Nuala goes on in her steady authoritative voice that she puts on in times of crisis. “I don’t know how much he screwed up yet and how much they know, I’ll find out. I just need you to be extra careful because if the 18th find out about you, that four million dollar bounty on your pretty head is getting paid.”

His chest tightens and his lungs feel smaller, pressed down on. He inhales deeply, holds it in and exhales slowly, his knees feeling weak and unable to hold his weight. He walks out of the living room and takes a seat at the dining table.

“Az?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you. Thanks for telling me. Add everything you have on them to the file, document it all. I know I said to wait, but do it now. We’re not taking any chances.”

“Ok,” Nuala’s voice is steady and confident. “I don’t want to scare you. I just want you alert, okay? You’re off your guard because of your busted state. Take care.”

“Yeah, yeah, thank you,” he screws his eyes shut. “Take care.”

He rubs his face, getting again to his feet and looks around him. He doesn’t have his gun on him; he hadn’t thought it appropriate to carry the thing for _babysitting_.

Azriel and the other detectives have been laying out a network of spies and insider informants throughout the state for a couple of years now. Azriel had pushed the idea onto Helion and convinced him to put it into action just before he went undercover himself. Azriel’s hopeless dreamer’s goal was to dismantle the whole Heptad, and when he’d proposed it in a meeting he’d been laughed at. Trying to bring down The Heptad was like climbing Mount Everest naked with one leg. But he’d negotiated and talked, and in the end it was Nuala who forced Helion to put it into action.

“The system already failed me and my sister. You’re supposed to do your job to protect people. He’s offering you a chance to say ‘I tried’.”

Following that, a month later Azriel went undercover. It’s only last December that he got pulled out of there after successfully infiltrating two of the gangs that formed the pillar The Heptad stood upon; Bloodhounds and Vultures. He’s left them in shambles, authorities dismantled and evidence gathered of everything they’ve ever done that he can arrest them for.

They’ve compiled a file that encloses all they have on the Heptad; voice recordings, photographs, written statements, receipts, incriminating evidence and everything they can get their hands on. It’s of the utmost importance that whenever they decide to make a move against them, bring in the attorney into this and charge them with their crimes, they have absolutely everything that leaves no room for them to slip out of their hands. Rhys had told him as much: unless he has everything gathered, his brother wouldn’t bother letting the file even enter the attorney office. If it isn’t absolutely incriminating, Rhysand won’t give it a chance.

Which is why the file is important. It’s not the wisest decision to have everything gathered in one figurative file –it’s more like three drawers in the filing cabinets- but only Helion has the keys to the locks.

Nuala is in charge of the 18th investigation, one of the Heptad, Henry is her undercover informant, a jobless man who had been mingling in that life before Nuala recruited him to work for them. If the 18th made him an offer, they knew he was working for the detectives, and if he refused or considered it, it means the police will be looking for his body in the Sidra. The 18th asks nicely once, but the barrel of their gun isn’t as nice. 

He nibbles his thumbnail, pacing the length of the dining room, thinking logically. Azriel’s the most wanted man to the Bloodhounds and the Vultures both who have independently announced a two million bounty on his head respectively for a whole year now. The fact that no one has gotten to him yet tells him they haven’t made the connection between Detective Azriel Bougainvillea, Colt Andrews and Michele Huard- and that’s good. If they’re going to make him an offer, it’ll be to Bougainvillea and he doesn’t have a recognizable face. Helion made sure to employ a few computer geniuses to encrypt the identities of each and every detective that went undercover. Azriel’s safe. He hasn’t been working on the Heptad case since he got back and was given Macmillan to catch, there’s no reason to tie him to Nuala any differently than any other detective.

He pours himself a glass of water and gulps it down. He’s safe. For now.

_All right, idiot, get your act together. Let’s think._


	7. Chapter 7

For the rest of the day following the warning phonecall from Nuala, Azriel fulfils his good-friend and babysitting duties in a steady balance between the two. Rebel helps with entertaining Winnie; a fast friendship blooming between the pair as Rebel continues to lie in Winnie’s lap, satisfied with the cooing and attention from the two-year-old. The softness of Rebel’s fur and its pleasantness is thanks to Azriel’s diligent grooming and care as well as Rebel’s own. He takes immense pride in Rebel’s pampered life, accepting no word of criticism from anyone whatsoever in regards to the spoiling he does. 

He runs the files Nuala sent on his laptop, filling out reports and looking at some cases she has unsolved, imploring his own outlook on the matters to help while he has Queen playing in the background from his phone. Winnie’s earlier tantrum left her tired for the day, so in comparison to yesterday’s energetic self, she’s fairly calmer. He doesn’t think much of it, perhaps Rebel’s presence calming her, so he hands her a pen and some of the leftover documents lying around in his bag for her to graffiti. 

They stay in the living room, only leaving to fetch some of her toys and go to the bathroom. The house is cold, forcing Azriel to keep his jacket over his thick hoodie for the day and to bundle Winnie in the fluffy flower-printed blanket that he deduced was hers. He does the menial work Nuala needs while thinking of their next moves. Nothing they do now should be without consultation of Helion, and everyone in on the plan should know of it. Nuala was right to immediately notify him and put him on his guard.

Sometime around 6 PM, Cassian drops by with Felix.

The moment Azriel opens the front door - after he's checked who was ringing the bell - Felix gives him a quick hug and runs inside, leaving Cassian to assault Azriel.

By means of a bear hug.

"Hey- Ow, ok! Miss you too- relax the ho- broken bones, remember? Ow, ok getting a back thump there. Good to see you too."

When Cassian finally relents his hold on him and holds him at arm's length, a smile blooms on Azriel's lips as he studies the man who's studying him in return.

Cassian's shorter than him by a mere inch, the difference unnoticeable at first glance with his heavily muscular build. He has a rough face, features unkind and arranged into an unfriendly neutral expression by habit. However, Cassian's smile is a million-dollar winning one that sets all else about him to shame, makes the unfriendliness in his eyes vanish and his expression welcoming. His hair is grown long, hanging just below his strong jaw with a healthy shine, habitually tied back. Brown skin - courtesy of his black mother - covers him, smooth and unblemished save for the cuts and scars on his face and arms which hold their fair share of tattoos.

At first glance, it's impossible to pin down Cassian as anything but an active soldier: his gait and posture held with constant vigilance, his chin held high, his walking gait faster and with purpose, his clipped tones and his habit to scan a crowd are all giveaway textbook signs to look for. Azriel has fun around him going over the typical military habits and checking off those Cassian supports still. Cassian's most renowned is jargon and pointing out people's flaws.

Cassian's hazel eyes flicker over his face, settling briefly over that bruise on his cheek -it really has become a landmark on his face, maybe Az should cover it up- and his eye twitches immediately. Azriel grins knowingly.

"What the hell is that?" Cassian points to Azriel's stubbled jaw. "And what the hell is that?" He points at Azriel's unruly hair that hasn't seen a cut in months.

"Come inside first, you ass," Azriel motions him inside, having left Winnie alone for far too long in the company of Felix who sounds like he's bouncing off the walls. He shuts the door behind Cassian when he steps inside, walking into the doorway of the living room on the left, opposite the dining room on the right just before the start of a long winding staircase.

Elain's house is large, a staircase in the hallway leading upstairs to where Winnie's room is and the bathroom he takes her to, and under the stairs a door that possibly leads to the basement. The frequent negative space Azriel has constantly seen tells him the purchase of the house was not intended originally for two occupants and could not be affordable on one salary, fueling his suspicions that there once was a husband involved in the process, and that his absence was unexpected.

In the living room, the common space of the house where it is most lived in, Felix is sitting on the floor with Winnie, his backpack unzipped on the floor between them and sharing with her an assortment of candies and sweets. Azriel turns to Cassian with an arched brow at their abundance.

"Kiddo was good today," he defends, sitting down on the couch Azriel's inhabited most of the day thanks to its comfort. "We had a fun date. But he didn't want to eat his stuff in the park because he wanted to share them with Winnie."

Azriel smiles at that, proud of his nephew's caring nature to care much for the candy. "Not all at once, Felix," he tells him as Felix unwraps a Hershey's and breaks off a piece for Winnie who eagerly takes it. "Dinner's nearly done."

"Dinner?" Cassian comments incredulously.

"You don't expect the two year old to go all day without a meal, do you?"

"I'm confused, which one of you is the two year old?"

Azriel smacks him with his notebook once before crouching and beginning to gather his spread out work. Sitting on the couch all day, no matter how comfortable, hurts so he had migrated two hours ago to the floor by the armchair. He shuts his laptop, flipping the notebook close and gathers his papers, careful not to take the ones Winnie's drawn on the back of.

"So," begins Cassian. "What's with the look?"

Azriel scratches the stubble on his face absentmindedly before packing away everything in the laptop bag. He shrugs the one shoulder. "This is my out-of-job and depressed look."

"Clearly you're not out of a job."

"Can't shave, can I? One hand and all."

"Yes you can. I've seen you shave left handed."

"I'm not feeling it. I like the beard. And the rugged look."

"Man, that's not a beard. That's a hormonal wannabe-hipster-teen-going-through-puberty beard."

Azriel throws him a carefully hidden gesture that relays all his thoughts regarding Cassian’s opinion on his appearance. “I’m tired of the clean cut look. I’m letting go for a bit.”

Cassian unwinds the scarf wrapped around his neck, tossing it over his shoulder. “What’s with the babysitting stint? You should have been there when Elain told me you’re babysitting for her. I thought she was pulling my leg.”

“Rhys wanted a favour because he’s busy with Feyre,” Azriel stands straight, looking for Rebel and spotting her besides the empty fireplace, camouflaged by the carpet and footstool. “Elain can’t get a babysitter, I’m available. Is that a problem?”

“Your shoulder is.”

“It’s just a shoulder.”

“Broken and stabbed. It’s not just a shoulder. You look like shit.”

“Haven’t we already established your dislike for my appearance and that I don’t care?”

“I meant you look exhausted. Are you sleeping? Even before your accident.”

Azriel can’t find anything to distract himself from Cassian’s steely sharp gaze, and resigns to sitting down next to him on the couch. Cassian waits patiently for an answer, observing Felix and Winnie consuming the Hershey’s bar between them bit by bit.

“Sometimes,” he admits quietly. “I can’t always. I can’t rest.”

Cassian’s eyes don’t move, giving him the sanctuary from his piercing knowing gaze. “You have to face your demons.”

“I am. But I don’t like feeling choked. I am dealing with them.”

“Have you seen your therapist?”

Azriel thinks back to his last appointment, a few months ago. He was swarmed with the Macmillan case, pressed down onto by grieving families and Helion’s need to have the perpetrator caught as soon as possible. Azriel was giving the case his all, barely sparing thought for his friends and his cat, sparing no thought at all for himself. He’d met with his therapist when the panic and doubt settled in his head and made breathing difficult. He’d come out of it feeling slightly better and with a prescription of sleeping pills to take sparingly. Sleeping helped him think clearer, but he was worried about getting hooked on them.

“A few months ago.”

“Are you letting yourself grieve?”

They’re all reasonable questions Azriel would normally ask his friends, does ask Nuala frequently in fact. But being on the receiving end of their sharp cutting blade is not as easily as wielding it. He feels out in the open, exposed and in the wrong. “In my own way.”

“By thinking about other stuff?”

“Doing things, taking action, working my feelings out.”

“Az,” Cassian’s tone softens. “You lost your friend. She died in your arms.”

“ _He_ ,” snaps Azriel immediately, that familiar snarl twisting his lips. “ _He_ did. I know that.”

“Apologies. My mistake,” Cassian isn’t phased. “All the same. Are you grieving?”

“Grief is just love with no place to go.”

“I’m not one to judge,” says Cassian gently. “Soldiers come in every week to talk, we listen to each other. We figure things out together, work our emotions and how we feel about things. No one has the answers, we try to get them together. I’m making sure you are doing that.”

“Helion had a counsellor come around every week, we all talked.”

“And?”

Azriel brings his feet off the floor, watching Felix break off a big piece of chocolate to Winnie, Rebel observing the pair watchfully from her place. He tucks his feet beneath him, cross legged, heart just a little heavier and eyes stinging. His voice cracks when he speaks again. “I don’t know. I feel fine. Normal.”

Winnie glances at him as she takes the chocolate, then she stands up hesitantly before she makes her way towards the men on the couch, her chocolate held in small smeared fingers. She walks over to Azriel, and holds out her hand. Thinking she wants to be picked up, he reaches forward and coils an arm around her, about to tug her up when she wiggles and protests.

“No, no!” She admonishes, making him let her go. She waves her hand in his face, and the chocolate in it. “Azeel take.”

“Oh?”

“Take. Azeel,” she offers the chocolate to him, bright eyes focused on it and small lips twisted into a concentrated frown. She puts the chocolate in his hand and watches him expectantly.

“Do you not want it, Win?”

“No, no, Azeel take! Eat!”

“Oh! Thank you.”

She does not relent until the chocolate disappears behind his lips, a smile stretching her own plump ones happily before she claps her two sticky hands together and holds up her arms. “Up!”

No chocolate has ever tasted so sweet or lovely on his tongue in his whole life. He hurries to pick her up and let her sit in the space of his crossed legs, something so charming and wholesome about the way her small body fits in his arm and her soft hair tickles his face. Azriel’s breath quivers as she hugs his arm and gives it a pat. He doesn’t know what she’s on about (he doesn’t want to think into it) but her offered chocolate is the tastiest thing in the world, her hug an embrace he doesn’t want to end.

She looks up at him as she hugs his arm, a grin revealing her baby teeth before she lets him go. He watches her transfixed, disbelieving, before he smiles at her, something that feels right from his heart. “Thank you.”

He thinks about what Jamie Anderson said: _It's all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go._

Winnie grins, wide and charming, before she climbs off his lap and rejoins Felix on the floor, Rebel coming in her stead to replace her place in Azriel’s lap, sparing Cassian one sharp stare.

Maybe the reason Azriel feels alienated from the label of ‘grieving’, his lack of tears and the stifling uncertainty wondering what else is wrong with him is because he has the outlets for that love he’s been taught. And maybe they really are just all humans fixated on the idea that only love could heal their brokenness. 

_I have someone to love,_ he reminds himself as he looks down at Rebel’s face, the taste of sweet melted chocolate on his tongue, his side warm by Cassian’s presence. 

“You know,” Cassian says thoughtfully as Rebel purrs. “I really think you’ll be fine.”

Azriel chuckles, rubbing his eyes and going back to stroke Rebel’s fur. “Told you.”

“So how does this work? You and Elain.”

“I come over just before she leaves, babysit Winnie till she comes back. She said she’ll be home earlier today. I have my stuff with me. I’m doing this till Feyre gets better.”

Cassian looks him over. “I still think you should take a break. From work.”

“I am on a break,” confirms Azriel. “Helion gives each of us a week off every year or so. He’s combined it with my sick leave. I’m just helping out with the miscellaneous things, and I’m helping out Elain. I’m really fine. You should see my day when I have a case.”

“Oh, I remember,” Cassian nods, a smile stretching his lips. “Helion called me to get you.”

“Which you turned into a party and got banned from the precinct.”

Cassian smiles reminiscently. “Misunderstanding.”

It’s an hour later that Azriel hears the sound of a car pulling into the garage. A few minutes later the door under the stairs jingles before it unlocks, admitting in a rosy-cheeked Elain who calls out “I’m home!”.

At the sound of her voice, Winnie perks up in her high chair and Felix beams, running out of the kitchen to greet her. After a second of squabbling, Azriel gets Winnie to her feet and watches her scurry away. Cassian spares him a smile before also going to greet Elain.

In the hallway, Elain’s hugging the two children, kneeling on the ground and holding them with her arms. The wide smile on her face makes Azriel feel safer as his shoulders relax and he watches Cassian gather the three of them in a collective warm hug, enunciated by squeals and laughter. A warm weight brushing his ankles, he looks down to see Rebel watching Elain. She looks up at Azriel and meows once.

When Cassian lets go of them, Elain’s attention is stolen by a rapidly speaking Felix who wastes no time in jumping straight into recapping his day at preschool. Azriel watches Elain’s bright eyes fixated on Felix, following every word he says and nodding along to him, expressing surprise where appropriate. A smile tugs Azriel’s lips when Winnie grabs her mother’s face and makes her look at her, also blabbering.

“Ok, can you wait for a second so I can talk to Uncle Cass?” Elain requests when Felix paused to inhale air, voice kind and that of a loving teacher. “Come on, let’s go sit. It smells like food.”

“Az cooked,” Cassian says proudly from his left side, smacking a hand to Azriel’s shoulder absentmindedly.

Azriel jumps, a suppressed choked sound escaping his lips, a cross between a yelp and a shout of pain thanks to Cassian’s heavy hand. He bows over, sparks exploding behind his squeezed eyelids as he grits his teeth and suppresses any movement. His shoulder flares and throbs painfully, barely restricting a scream of pain thanks to the shock through his broken bones.

Someone’s talking to him, apologizing profusely and if Azriel loses focus for a second he might just lose control and go haywire. He ignores everything.

“Ow!” Cassian yelps from beside him.

“Winnie!” Elain’s voice sounds sharper in his head.

“Abababa Azeel!” Winnie shouts. “Boo Boo Azeel! Ababababababa!”

When he manages to open his eyes and stand a bit straighter, Azriel sees Winnie held by the elbow by her mother, a furious scowl on her small face, bright eyes glaring daggers at Cassian who rubs a spot on his shin incredulously.

Azriel rapidly blinks away the sharpness in his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. Cassian yelps again when Rebel swipes her claws at his leg, hissing in that terrifying way of hers that reminds Azriel of a cobra.

“Fuck’s sake, it was an accident!” Cassian flaps at Rebel, trying to shake her off his good leg. “Get your demonic cat off me, man. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Winnie, seeing Rebel in danger with Cassian gently shaking his leg, opens her mouth and screams in a high pitched tone that might rattle the windows in their frames.

“Fuck,” Az clamps a hand over an ear, bowing his head over. Winnie immediately stops at his reaction and scowls furiously at Cassian.

“Calm down, you idiot,” mutters Azriel with a slap to Cassian’s arm, getting on his knees and extending his free arm towards his hissing cat latched to the man’s trousers. Cassian’s weight centred on his prosthetic could tip him over and he doesn’t have anything to hold onto. “Come here, Rebel,” he grabs her, her claws dig into the skin of his hands immediately, splitting open skin. She hisses and scratches as he brings her to his chest, careless to her rampage.

“Winnie, you can’t do that,” Elain’s warm voice is gone and replaced with a sharp lecturing tone. “ _No_ ,” she says forcefully in response to Winnie’s heated glare towards Cassian. “You don’t hit anyone. Especially Uncle Cass. Winnie, it’s wrong. _No_. Ok?”

Winnie doesn’t miss a beat to respond in a shrill incredulous tone, her voice cracking and her eyes welling up in tears. Azriel can’t understand the gibberish but he thinks he hears his name.

“Uncle Cass hurt Azeel?” Elain translates.

“Yeah!” Winnie’s voice cracks, her angry face breaking, the tears falling and her face dropping before she turns away from Cassian to her mother’s shoulder and starts crying.

“Don’t cry, Win!” Felix hurries to her. “Uncle Cass didn’t mean it! It’s just an eggcent.”

“Adada Azeel!” sobs Winnie.

Azriel sits frozen there in the hallway on his knees across from Elain, both holding their respective tantrum-throwing child, perplexed and guilt ridden as Winnie cries. He meets Elain’s eyes as Rebel claws at his wrists and hands. They’re swimming with a mix of emotions he can’t decipher before she looks down at her kid.

“It’s an eggcent, Win, Uncle Cass was just playing. Look, look, Uncle Az is ok. He’s smiling!”

Azriel is most certainly not, but it makes Winnie raise her face and look at him with red-rimmed eyes wet with salty tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m ok,” he assures her. “Rebel’s ok. She’s mad too. Can you talk to her?”

Winnie sniffles and steps towards him as Rebel sinks her teeth in Azriel’s fingers. The little girl wipes her eyes and stares him down, seeming to determine if he’s lying or not.

“I’m ok,” he says softly as his shoulder throbs mercilessly in the cast. “It’s ok.”

She rubs her eyes and stands close to him, eyes glum and devoid of the cheerful light they carried all day. He tries to muster a smile before she takes another step closer and puts her arms around his neck. This time a true smile tugs his lips, chest expanding as he brings the free arm with Rebel attached around her and she sits on his thighs.

“Are you all right?” quietly Cassian asks as Rebel steadily stops her rampage against his scarred hands. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s ok. Sorry she scratched you.”

Elain snaps from the silent trance she’s been in ever since Winnie stepped towards Azriel. “I’m sorry too, I don’t know what came over her. It’s not like her to kick or hit.”

Felix stands hesitantly by Elain, toying with his fingers before he remembers his initial mission of recapping his day. “Aunty Elain, Aunty Elain! And then Jasper went down the slide and he didn’t see the girl and he hit her and she fell and she cried and Miss Kelly told him off for not seeing her and hitting her and making her fall and making her cry and-“

Winnie hiccups in Azriel’s arm. He looks down at her and offers her a smile. In response, she burrows closer to his side.

Elain rubs her forehead, standing up. She picks up Winnie and offers a hand to help up Azriel who gladly takes it as Felix goes on.

“Someone please tell me there’s tea,” sighs Elain as she leads the small party to her kitchen.

“I’ll make some,” quietly Azriel responds, setting Rebel into his sling.

“You sit down,” Cassian quickly interjects. “That kid will murder me if you do anything.”

Indeed, Winnie is staring unkindly at Cassian from her mother’s arms, even as she puts her in her high chair. Azriel takes the seat closest to her as Elain dumps herself into one with a heavy sigh and closed eyes. Felix clambers onto one as Cassian boils water.

“How was your day?” Azriel tentatively asks, taking in her tired expression. She pushes a hand through her hair tied into a sloppy bun and opens one eye, her brow furrowing.

“Long,” she answers after a moment’s thought. “It’s incredibly cold outside, none of the kids would leave the building. Oh, and the bakery was just fabulous. One of the workers didn’t show up, Hart was fuming all day.”

“Who?” asks Cassian, leaning against the counter.

“Freddie. He does the cleaning and errands. Production today was slowed down because we had to do his job. Ianthe was ready to spit fire.”

Azriel has no clue who any of those people are, but he finds himself hanging on every word that escapes her lips. He listens to her talk about her kids and her headmaster, noting the changes in her expression; her eyebrows arching and dancing with every expression, mouth smiling around the words as she speaks, her small controlled hand gestures and steady speaking tone.

“Oh and before I forget!” she remembers, sitting straighter. “Cassian, Eris was talking about getting us someone to teach us how to fight a shooter this weekend. Would you be up to it or know someone who’d like to help?”

Azriel chokes on the hot tea he decided to take a sip of while she spoke. Cassian stares at Elain.

“Excuse me?” gasps Azriel, nose stinging. “Fight a shooter?”

“Yes,” she bobs her head, absentmindedly stroking Felix’s hair. “In case of a shooter, Eris wants us to know how to fight and disarm him. He’s investing as much as he can into preventing it from happening or dealing with it the best if it does.”

 _What the fuck?_ “A shooter comes round the school, you bolt and barricade the doors, don’t make a sound and if worse comes to it you run out through the windows.”

Elain looks nonchalant as she shrugs. “It won’t do any harm.”

“It actually might,” Cassian pipes up. “Arming someone with the confidence to take on a shooter does them more harm if they don’t have extensive knowledge of self-defence. Your fear is your best chance of survival.”

Despite their many disagreements, Azriel has to agree with him on that.

“You don’t confront a maniac with a gun when the only weapon you’ve ever held is a butter knife, you just hide,” Azriel adds. “It’s best to just avoid them.”

“It might help.”

“All right, Elain, you want to talk combat, let’s talk combat.” Cassian sets down his tea, his raspy voice taking a straightforward tone. Azriel doesn’t fail to notice his shift in posture; legs spread, arms crossed on his chest. Boom, power stance: check. “Marine like me comes at you, I got an AR 15 which mass shooters just love, and I’m dead set on killing you, your kids and-“

Azriel coughs loudly, effectively cutting off Cassian when he sees the wide-eyed stare Felix is giving Cassian. “Real delicate, Cass.”

Cassian seems to remember that there are two children with them, one of which is hanging on every word he’s saying. Elain looks at Felix and smooths his hair, similar to hers and her sisters’. “Uncle Cass doesn’t mean that, sweetheart. He’s talking about something imaginary.”

“Uh, yes. I’m kidding, kid. Don’t listen to me.”

Felix looks visibly shaken as he remains silent, so Elain pulls him into an embrace on her lap. “Back to the point, do you know someone who’d do what Eris wants?”

“I know a man,” confirms Cassian, bobbing his head. “I’ll speak to him for you.”

“Great,” Elain relaxes in the chair, leaning her head back and sliding her eyes shut. “I owe you.”

Cassian chuckles. “No you don’t, ma’am,” he glances at his wristwatch. “It’s time for me to leave. I’ll see you soon, Ellie,” he plants a brief kiss to her head and Felix’s. “Az, let’s go for coffee soon.”

Azriel bobs his head. “I’m down. I’ll let you know when.”

Cassian is careful to simply wave at him and gives one to Winnie who focuses on the spaghetti in her tray instead of responding.

“Oh, by the way, did Mor talk to you?”

Cassian turns on his heel, eyebrows knitting together. “Why?”

“I told her about getting lunch.”

Lone eyebrow arched, Cassian nods. “Yeah, she did.”

“Hmm.”

“Well.. good night.”

“Oh, wait, let us give you a ride!” Elain sits up, sliding Felix off her lap and getting to her feet.

“What? Where are you going?”

“I forgot to go grocery shopping last week,” she says. “Azriel’s coming with us so we can get his snacks while he looks after Winnie.”

_-Oh God, why had I agreed to that?_

_=Cause you were too busy serenading the woman, you sleep deprived fuck._

_-Fuuuuck._

“Yeah, he’ll bankrupt you, good luck with that.”

“Uh, Elain, you don’t have to, really. It’s fine,” Azriel pipes up, skin crawling with the situation he’s weaselled himself into. He feels like a needy five-year-old. “Forget it.”

She brushes it off easily. “I’ve never met someone who inhales food like that man over there,” she responds, grabbing her purse from the table and checking its contents. “He eats anything at unbelievable speed.”

Cassian snorts. “You’re about to find out. That gangly hormonal 15-year-old right there consumes food twenty-four hours a day.”

“Anyone using a brain needs fuel, Cass. Now, do you want a ride or not?”

“Well count me in if Az is driving.”

Azriel picks Winnie up and takes her to the sink. “You ok with that, Elain?”

“Oh please, I’m tired of driving.”

* * *

Elain’s kept Cassian’s old car in good shape, relatively. It smells nice, is clean and only has scattered miscellaneous items like pens and hair ties around. Azriel’s been in worse cars, mainly Nuala’s and Mor’s who hoards things in her back seats like a dragon. They drop him off in the centre of town where they made sure he got into a taxi before Azriel headed to the nearest Walmart. He had barely been able to resist the urge to dump Cassian in the middle of the road who is in the soldier habit of shouting at him while driving. “RIGHT CLEAR! DOG LEFT! PEDESTRIAN RIGHT! LEFT CLEAR!”

Elain quietly turned the radio volume higher after the first shout, drowning out Cassian’s instructions with Ed Sheeran’s _Castle on The Hill._ Azriel was never more thankful for something.

Every person when going grocery shopping has a usual plan of action to avoid getting lost in the labyrinth of Walmart and retail companies of the like. Azriel’s routine has consisted of cat food at the start, groceries and then snacks. Elain, however, beelines for vegetables, Felix following obediently in a remarkable representative behaviour of Rhys with his hands in his pockets, leaving Azriel and Winnie to close the small party, Rebel once again nestled in his sling peacefully.

He keeps a firm hold on Winnie’s hand, mindful to not let her slip away as she gapes at the hypermarket, head going every direction to take in everything around her. Azriel makes sure to remember her clothing: jeans, yellow puffer jacket, blue sweater. He had even made Elain take a picture of her and Felix –whom Azriel memorized the clothing of too; chestnut leather jacket, grey pants, emerald green sweater- before they left.

Felix is helping Elain pick out vegetables, pointing at ones he thinks are suitable. Azriel admires her long line of patience with him and her easy interaction; his nephew usually exhausts people in the span of three hours, but his aunt seems to follow along easily and take him in stride. He supposes being a teacher, that comes with the territory.

Winnie hangs from his hand, tugging at it and trying to stray, the epitome of bored portrayed on her face. Azriel has to agree; after two minutes standing with Winnie while Felix and Elain wander around vegetables, he’s ready to leave too. _Why had he agreed to come? He barely spends ten minutes while shopping himself._

He looks around while Winnie plays a game of tag with his arm and the pair of them make a snail’s pace around the grocery section.

“Hey, Elain, we’ll be just there,” he gestures down the aisle at the end of which he spots a stand of albums and movies. Elain spares him a nod before going back to picking avocados. “Come on, Winnie.”

Azriel menially goes through the movie DVDs, taking note of things he’d like to see. The minute he picks up _Deadpool_ , revealing _Zootopia_ behind, Winnie wants to grab it. He hands her the CD and reads the blurb on the back of _Deadpool_ while Winnie examines the animals on the art. She points at the ones she knows, excited to see familiar animals and he nods along, wondering if Ryan Reynolds will make him laugh in this.

Five minutes later, Elain and Felix find them again and soon Azriel’s mistake is put in the spotlight when Elain asks Winnie to put back the movie. He witnesses the second temper tantrum of Winnie for the day.

“No,” Elain tells her when the girl refuses to part with the animal movie. “Put it back, baby. We’re not getting it.”

The girl proceeds to refuse.

“No,” repeats Elain, soft voice taking once again a stern edge. “Put it back.”

“It’s okay, Aunty Elain,” Felix pipes up when his cousin shows signs of starting the waterworks. Azriel observes quietly, wondering if he should interfere. “We have the movie and it’s really cool. Mommy let us watch it a lot.”

“I know, Feely. Now Winnie, baby, put it back. We don’t need it.”

The waterworks start.

Elain doesn’t budge.

Azriel awkwardly stands there while Rebel stirs in his sling at the crying. Elain looks at her daughter, eyebrow raised, face stern, and repeats her request. Felix looks uncomfortable.

“Um, Elain,” Azriel clears his throat when Winnie throws herself at the floor. “She really likes it, so maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea?”

“Feyre and Rhys never say no to her,” Elain calmly replies. “I won’t let her become entitled to anything she wants. I’m prepared to give her the world, but I’m not prepared to give the world another entitled brat.”

He can’t argue with that, actually approves of it, but he’s torn between making the girl happy and stopping her crying and between agreeing with her mother.

“Giving her everything doesn’t equate happiness. I’m prepared to stay here all night if need be, but she’s not getting that movie.”

Now he feels properly bad; a worried shared glance with Felix conveys both their unwillingness to stay here all night.

“May I?” he gestures to the screaming toddler. “I’ll talk her out of it.”

Elain’s single nod is the permission he needs before he crouches next to Winnie, tapping her shoulder. She gives a particular throat-ripping scream at that, Rebel meowing sharply at the disturbance.

“What’s that, Winnie? Is that a bunny?”

He fishes for his phone while he convinces Winnie to show him the movie and sit up. Asking about the animals on the cover makes her stop the screaming and hiccup quietly while she answers questions.

“Why don’t you put it there with its family?” he points to the CDs. She recoils at once. “Why do you want it?”

It takes everything in him to not be bewitched by the cuteness of her trying to make her case about desiring the movie and try to catch any word he might make use of. She blabs, incoherent gibberish and affronted tone articulated with hand gestures while he looks for the movie on the internet, saved by his data.

“Yes, but-“ she interrupts with more gibberish. “Ok, but I have it on my phone here,” he pulls up a poster of the movie and shows her the screen. “See? We don’t need that, we have it here.”

Like magic, she fixates on the screen and he thinks _oh no, is this another mistake?_

“So, let’s put that there, ok? We have it here. We don’t need that there. That’s no, no, eek.”

“Eek?” she repeats, damp eyes blinking. He nods.

To his surprise, she complies with putting the case back and requests his phone instead. After a nod from Elain, he hands her the phone, relieved they’re over the tantrum.

“Up, up,” she tugs on his jeans. He complies, even if her arm around his neck is tight and tugging at his collarbone. He grits his teeth.

She refuses to be let down after, so they spend the rest of the shopping with her carried and looking at the poster obsessively. Elain tries to convince him to let the girl down when she notices his wince for the third time but he insists it’s fine.

He’s seriously out of shape; carrying her strains his forearm too quickly for his good and he can’t switch arms, soon the pain travels up his elbow and good shoulder. He tries to distract himself with the snacks Elain is offering to purchase, listen to Felix give his opinion on the best cereal, or even with Winnie cooing at the movie poster but the strain is too much.

“Azriel you don’t look well,” after deciding on coco pops with full consultation of one Esteemed Felix Blackwood, Elain takes notice of his face. “Here, give me Winnie. You look sick.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles but relents in offering Winnie over. When she catches on to the switch, she throws herself back at him with a protesting whine, and- oh undying fuck what does the world have against his left shoulder?

Elain snatches her kid away when Azriel startles back, hand shooting to his cast and Rebel revolting at the hit. He turns his back on them, walking away a few steps and bowing over. He really hates this. He hates Macmillan, his shoulder, the pain, his sleep deprivation, his whole life.

“I’ll um- I need to get food for- uh- Rebel,” he manages to mumble. “I’ll meet you at the cashier in five.”

“I’m so sorry. Are you-?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he’s walking away already. “It’s nothing.”

The cat food aisle is a long way to the back, the perfect journey to walk out the pain and clogged feeling. Breathing steadily in through his nose and out through his mouth calms him down, clears his head as his shoulder painfully throbs. His doctor said to keep his shoulder steady and immobilized his arm to speed the healing process, but with incidents like this happening, Azriel’s positive that he’s staying in the cast for several extra days.

He circles back when his head clears and the pain is manageable. He doesn’t really need any food for Rebel, it was the first excuse that popped in his head. Just as he turns a corner in the spices aisle, he runs straight into someone.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” he chokes, hand flying to his shoulder as any previously mediated pain bursts harder than ever. “ _For fuck’s sake_!”

“Azriel?”

He freezes. He hasn’t heard that voice in years- two, to be specific. In their apartment in Hewn, the very night before he packed his bags and left-

The world really hates him.

He hasn’t changed at all. It’s the same face, clothes, posture and voice. Age hasn’t touched him. Azriel blinks, the world losing focus at the edges, gaze fixed on the man before him who looks at him as sharply as Azriel is.

Oh, fuck no.

“Az, what- you’re _here?_ How are you? God, you look so different. Are you ok? You look like you’re going to pass out. Az? Az?”

He isn’t listening, not really.

“Azriel? What are you doing here-?”

“Fuck off,” his mouth shoots before his mind can catch up, his default defensive lines going into formation. His feet withdraw him a few steps back. His mouth defends him.

“Az, wait, just- hold on.”

His shaking hand rises and he points a finger at his brother, his biological half-brother, Charles. “I said fuck off.”

“You look sick-“

“Sick of your bullshit,” is the automatic response as his mind catches up and his system boots up. He shakes his head, pressing a hand to his face. “What have I done wrong in my life?”

“Azriel,” Charles takes a step towards him and Azriel immediately backs up two. His brother holds up his hands peacefully. “Sorry. I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?”

“Oh no, I’m not having this one,” he shakes his head and walks past him. His therapist’s words ring in his head _he can’t hurt you. You got rid of him. He can’t hurt you._ He knows better than to dismantle her words in his head.

“Wait, just _wait_ , Az you can’t just walk out like that-“

“Newsflash, asshole!” despite himself he turns around, voice rising, anger spiking. “I can! I _did_!”

“You left me alone without a warning-!”

“That’s what you deserve!”

“We were supposed to have each other’s backs. Us against the world, fend for ourselves. You left me vulnerable!”

Oh he hasn’t been this angry since he accused Rhys of being a snobby corrupt tycoon who kisses the boots of evil capitalist sharks just to suck up to them. Azriel prides himself in being able to hold his breath and not lose his temper, and he’s only lost it a countable number of times and doesn’t plan on being unable to count them on one hand. But he feels that utter boiling _rage_ rise, hateful and acid and unforgiving. And he isn’t concerned with not pouring it over his estranged half-brother.

Charles is... Charles has always been special.

Azriel has three biological half-brothers, two psycho cunts he hasn’t heard of since being rescued at the age of eleven, and Charles.

He was born out of wedlock, and –if his mother’s dickhead boyfriend is to be believed- conceived against his mother’s will. His mother tried to have him, apparently kept him for three months before she ran out of stamina. He doesn’t know how he came to be in his father and stepmother’s house, what he does know is that his mother gave him to his father.

He doesn’t have a timeline of the time spent there. His brothers would come into the small basement every while, beat him raw and bruised, ‘try to see how muscles work’, make him scream and cry like a strangled cat, choke him to determine the time of fading bruises, and try to shape an understanding of the alien in their basement. Charles was the one who took notes. Azriel remembers that vividly: they’d turn on the solitary lightbulb swinging from the ceiling, Charles would stand in the light with his notebook, the other two would drag Azriel from the dark, blinding him with the strong light.

Charles used to sneak in alone, turn on the light and watch Azriel crawl to the edge of the dark. After the time Azriel hesitantly touched his hand and his brother smiled at him, teaching him what a smile was, Charles started to sneak in food.

One time he feigned being sick to stay at home alone, and when he was sure the house was empty, he scampered to let Azriel out of the basement. It was the first time Azriel sat on a piece of furniture- the texture of his stepmother’s couches, the smell of cheese pizza, the taste of cool water and the episode of Tom and Jerry are all engraved vividly in his head. He still remembers the cereal they had munched on and the pizza they ate. Azriel had eaten his very first apple that night, Charles laughing himself off the couch at Azriel’s expression in response to the sour green apple.

Charles was always special, even when they reconnected and moved into an old apartment together. Azriel could never employ the morals and lessons he’d been taught vigilantly by Mrs Blackwood on Charles- he was right and wrong, awful and caring, manipulating and protective. Azriel's headaches were frequent in that time while he battled with his instincts to remain loyal to his half-brother and to listen to his adoptive-brother. Rhys warned him time and time again, had gone on spectacularly awful with Charles until the latter eventually cut him off after the fight Azriel had with Rhys, and had begged Azriel to see reason.

The memories creep up on him, growing his rage, a silent inferno rising high above him, a poised cobra ready to strike.

“Az,” Charles says quietly, eyes hooded with something dark Azriel doesn’t bother to interpret. “You shouldn’t have left. Look at yourself. _Look at you_.”

Maybe Charles’s thinly veiled concern is true and he does care, maybe he has changed for the better, maybe that’s exactly what he wants Azriel to think, maybe it’s truly a coincidence he ran into him, maybe he’s been following him for some time now, _maybe he’s in league with the Vultures and he’s about to claim the bounty on Azriel’s head_. Maybe. Charles knew of Azriel’s undercover work and his job as a detective. Maybe everyone’s lying to him, trying to deceive him.

His blood pressure rises, the pulse throbbing behind his eyes familiarly, sharply contracting the veins in his temple. _Not these again_.

“Az, just- you don’t know what you’re doing with yourself. It’s ok. Let me help.”

Azriel’s resentment burns hot in him, baited with every word leaving Charles’s lips. Not this again, he’s not thinking this way again.

He expects himself to shout and maybe punch him, but his voice drops low and his anger deflates so suddenly it’s startling. “Go to hell,” Azriel says with finality, turning on his heel and walking away.

“Az-“

“Come after me and we’ll fucking see if I know what I’m doing,” he spits over his shoulder, quickening his pace, throat clogged up and chest tight. His shoulder throbs painfully. He’s a hair’s width from smashing his whole left side into concrete and to give himself something to be in pain about.

Elain and the kids are at the cashier, having their items checked out. She’s looking around for him and meets his gaze when he appears in her line of sight. There’s a questioning look in her eyes that he can’t bring himself to look at, so he averts his gaze when he comes to stand next to her.

“Are you ok?” she asks softly, unheard by everyone else.

 _No,_ he thinks, glancing up at her. Her soft expression goes even tenderer, her understanding briefed in the slight twitch of her eyebrows and the way she doesn’t ask again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well i know, i know- the sirens sound  
> just before the walls come down.  
> pain is a well-intentioned weatherman  
> but God i want to feel again,  
> oh God i want to feel again.  
> -Sleeping At Last, Touch

The rest of the week passes by fairly quickly for Elain, the newly established routine with the detective proving efficient and extremely supportive. She has extra time to her mornings now, what with being saved from dressing Winnie and driving her to her aunt's house, Elain has a few precious moments to her day where she can prepare herself and start her day off right. 

The downside, however, to having time to herself is that she doesn't have an excuse to run from her thoughts. 

It's 2:47 AM on Friday morning, the long week coming to an end at last. Her exhaustion is prevalent in her very bones: she's lying in bed, staring at the red luminous numbers, hoping the dull action of nothing will put her back to sleep. And yet it doesn’t give her reprieve, it only prompts an onslaught of unwelcome thoughts and banished feelings.

Her heart thuds heavily in her chest. Staying absolutely still helps to spreads her reminiscence equally, until all of her is influenced by a gravity gratified tenfold tying her to the mattress. It helps ease the tight knot in her chest. 

The clock quietly turns 3:00. Digital numbers glow in the dark on the alarm that reminds her of her duties every morning. She stares at them, growing eventually tired of them so she turns on her other side, towards the vacant expanse next to her. She rests her gaze on the small figure occupying the space not intended for them.

Her eyes find Winnie's still body in the dark. She's sleeping blissfully, bless her, soft snores whistling past her faintly parted lips, small chest rising and falling with every breath, eyelids a seemingly bruised colour as she sleeps. Her toys lay an arm's reach away: favourite plushies and dolls brought to Elain's bed as she graded homework. Winnie looks the polar opposite of herself as she sleeps; everything is so quiet and lifeless.

Elain doesn't remember falling asleep or Winnie coming to her room - her heart crushes under the onslaught of guilt and drives her to fix the blanket over Winnie and kiss her face gently multiple times. The last Elain remembers was bathing and putting Winnie in her pyjamas before the girl went to play in her room and Elain turned her attention to her students’ homework. 

Winnie's small fist is slowly clenching and unclenching, small legs kicked out and her lips moving wordlessly. Elain can watch her for an eternity and still never get over the magic that is Winnie's existence. Everything about her daughter is magical to Elain. Her daughter. A part of her. Her child. A person dependent absolutely on her alone. 

She kisses her forehead, stroking her fair hair. Winnie needs a haircut; her thin hair would benefit from it, grow stronger. She'll get to it someday. Maybe she can fit it in her schedule this weekend. 

Fridays are a relief, mostly because they're a stopper on the rush of the week. On weekends, Winnie spends them alternatingly between Graysen and Elain. When it's Elain's turn to have her, she's at Feyre's while Elain works at the bakery. Elain doesn't remember what a free weekend is anymore, all her days spent back-to-back working. 

Winnie turns over, snuggling into Elain's side. Her mother brings her arm around her, tucking her in, kissing her lightly again and gaining resolve from the notion that everything she does, it's for Winnie's benefit. 

She's grown so much, Elain reminisces. She was the most beautiful baby on the planet, giggling and smiling all the time, her fussy demands in the night a pleasure to attend to. Elain can't believe it's been two years since her birth already, it feels only yesterday. 

Winnie was born looking like all babies and favouring neither of her parents. She was a delight; chubby cheeks, full wet lips, groping hands, high pitched voice and a big tummy. Graysen often joked that Elain had been eating for three stomachs during her pregnancy. 

A few months later and her features began to show; her hair was extremely blonde, darkening with each haircut, her blue eyes turning to take a hazel tone, their wide shape inherited from her father; Graysen's a white black-haired man with startling blue eyes that used to make Elain weak at the knees. Winnie seems to have taken her mouth from Elain, and her nose too. Though it's impossible to tell, Elain takes it as a compliment when people tell her that her daughter is eerily like her. There's not a more beautiful girl on the plant than her little bear. 

Elain and Graysen had been enchanted by the small being they brought into the world; Winnie would unknowingly dictate their whole world with just her presence. They were bent around the corner to ensure every comfort possible to her, brainwashed by advertisements taking advantage of their inexperienced state to buy anything that had ‘organic’ on it. There was not a surface in the house that was not baby-proofed, even before Winnie's birth, Graysen had gone mad ensuring no dangers would be posed to his daughter. 

And Graysen... Graysen rocked Elain's world. 

She was always prepared for the stress of the life she chose; because Elain was secure- a loving husband, a stable job, a house, two sisters, a father, and a girl. She thought her tribulations would come from her career. What she hadn’t anticipated was it attacking her from the place she most trusted: Graysen.

Elain used to have her differences and arguments with Graysen, and they were honestly forgotten by the end of the day when she’d set Winnie to sleep and come to bed. Graysen’s arms would find her in the dark, then his lips against her temple and his soft “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re always right” and simple as that, they were erased- faded graphite on crumpled paper.

She doesn't like to think about him, because whenever she does she can never stop and she spirals down a hole that prods at everything she ever believed until there's nothing she believes in anymore. Hate is a welcome feeling regarding him but one that does not come to her. When she thinks of him, there's only cold indifference in her chest. Her chilling indifference had gripped her heart since that day in August, and it has yet to shake off. It scares Elain sometimes, makes her wonder if she's broken in some way. Usually, she doesn't even have the time to think about him and it’s a blessing and a curse to be busy.

_"I want us to be civil,"_ he had said when they signed the last of the divorce papers and the movers had taken all his belongings to his new house and his new life that did not include his old wife and his old child from his old life, leaving Elain to bear the shredded remains of life as she knew it in her palms, teary-eyed and unable to move on though she claims she has.

_Civil_ , she scoffed. It's easy for him to say that. He's not the one bitterly betrayed, his world rocked at the base, everything he thought he knew a lie. 

Winnie sighs in the quiet that’s followed by the faint rumbling of thunder. Elain strokes her hair some more before she sits up, scratching her head and ruffling her hair. She's exhausted but can't go back to sleep. Her body's begging to rest, her feet sore, her throat scratchy, but her mind's wide awake.

She grabs her phone, turning it on. Her fingers wander, opening Facebook followed by Twitter then WhatsApp, going through the most recent messages on the group chat Feyre had made for her wedding and one that stayed alive. 

It's mostly messages between Cassian and Feyre, the most active members of the group, joined occasionally by Rhys. Elain sometimes chats with them when she has the time every few days but sticks mostly to reading their messages. Nesta has them all on mute since the wedding came to an end and doesn't read the messages, which is fair considering there are hundreds that easily pile up. Elain scrolls up to the message that starts the conversation and makes the most sense, stopping briefly when she spots an unfamiliar member joining in with a few short texts and voice messages predominantly. 

It's an unfamiliar number but it's Azriel's name by it in the cobalt blue label. Confused because she has his contact saved already _-Azriel Bougainvillea-_ she opens the first voice message he sent with a slightly shaking finger. 

"Feyre, as I said," a deep smooth voice sounds from the speaker. Her heart wildly thunders in her chest as she quickly lowers the volume and puts it to her ear. "Sherlock's three aired seasons, the last one is airing next year in January. It's a modern retelling of the original. You don't have to know anything about the series to watch it."

Elain doesn't bother reading the responses, she opens the next message quickly. 

"It's fantastic, what do you mean it's boring? You've never seen it," she hears some clinking of porcelain in the background and realises he's chewing something. "No, it's not. It's entertaining and brilliant. Cassian shut the flying fuck up you uncultured fuck, Benedict Cumberbatch is a king and Martin Freeman’s acting is without a fucking rival.”

She ignores Cassian and Feyre’s replies, hurriedly starting the next message. 

“Feyre, it’ll take your mind off things. No, it’s not _gore_ for fuck’s sake. It’s just purely scientific and the cases aren’t even explicit. Cassian you haven’t seen anything of Benedict’s so shut the fuck up I said.” 

“No you’re not entitled to your own opinion, you’re entitled to your informed opinion. No, we won’t agree to disagree- who’s your favourite actor? Fucking Tom Cruise? He plays the same badass role in every film you see him in, he’s tough guy 101. Benedict’s a certified chameleon in every role he plays.” 

“Peaky Blinders is sick, Rhys, yeah but I can’t tell her to watch it if she can’t stomach an eyeball in a cup of tea, can I?”

“Broadchurch’s nice, yeah, but you won’t watch it Fey- fuck off Cassian I have a fucking whole arm in a cast and I can’t move my fucking shoulder which you smashed the other day if you’ve forgotten- _I can’t text_.” 

_But you text me_ , Elain thinks suddenly, recalling his hourly messages whenever she leaves Winnie with him. He never misses one, types out everything she needs to know in one carefully crafted message of proper grammar and no spelling mistakes.

"Anyway, Rhys, I'm sending you Sia's album, you have to listen to it. You have to trust me on this one." 

"Cassian I swear you're just disagreeing with everything I say just to say Oh look everyone I'm Cassian, and I have a valid opinion too! No one trash-talked your beloved Beyonce. I'm saying Sia's _This Is Acting_ is remarkable and worth remarking on."

"Fuck off! Have you listened to _Bird Set Free_ , you moron?"

"You," one very brief message says.

"Know" the other is composed of one word.

"I'm"

"Going"

"To"

"Talk"

"In" 

"One"

"Syl-

"la"

"ble"

"At”

“A”

"Time"

"To"

"Spite"

"You"

"Cass"

"Ian"

Elain chuckles, reading Cassian's complaining messages. Rhys is warning him not to provoke an apparently petty Azriel who's prepared to speak like that. Elain opens Azriel's voice message which turns out to be a deep dive into the pop music genre. Azriel threatens to sing his favourite songs at them, to which both Rhys and Cassian send pleading messages not to. When his next messages turn out devoid of any singing, Elain tells herself that she's not disappointed and that she's glad that it won't wake up Winnie. 

Azriel doesn't send any messages again, apparently having nothing more to contribute and going offline because he hasn't read the rest of the chat between Cassian, Rhys and Feyre. 

Elain wanders through her phone after that, curiously looking up Azriel's social media and finding a few private profiles. When she finds nothing else to do, Elain goes through her photos, reliving old moments. 

She comes across a video that automatically plays. At first, she doesn't recognise it, but then she appears on the screen, very much pregnant, lips smiling wide and bleary-eyed as she holds onto the wall.

_"Tell the camera what you just said to me," Graysen's sleep-addled voice sounded off-screen._ Her heart sinks. She knows exactly what this is. Quickly, she swipes away from the video of Winnie's birth. The photos preceding it are random and some document memories. She doesn't know why she hasn't yet deleted these pictures of her and Graysen. 

The way she's smiling in the photos with him incites an acidic feeling in her mouth. She had been so happy it makes her sick; he looked happy too. At least what she thought was happy. She wonders when his thoughts began to stray away from her, and if he was actually as in love with her as she was with him. 

Her finger hovers over the delete button of her favourite picture of them. She had it for several months as her wallpaper before it got replaced with Winnie's photos. She deletes it anyway, swiping through the pictures far back. She doesn't take many photos, her album consists of Winnie, activities her students do, a book she wanted to remember, a random paper with information that might come in handy, the rare photo of a beautiful sky and maybe a photo of herself or two.

She ends up scrolling back in time until she reaches the photos she has of Rhys and Feyre's wedding and their parties. Of those, she has documented a lot. Her sister looked stunning in her gorgeous dress; her train was massive, the princess style dress enormous and here to create a powerful statement. Elain was always of the opinion that such dresses were beautiful on mannequins, but were impossible to pull off. Feyre proved her wrong in the best way possible; her sister wore that royal gown all day as if it were a second skin. The wedding itself was unforgettable, everything about it was absolutely perfect. 

Smiling, she remembers the tears she shed that day. She had no qualms about getting teary-eyed over her sister and husband exchanging their vows. They had had their falling out a few years prior, Feyre cutting herself off and missing Elain's own wedding to Graysen, but they had reached out once again when Feyre decided she wanted to set her life straight and leave her questionable life behind. Rhys had tracked Elain down, got hold of her and explained, and Elain had sobbed when he said her sister was looking for her. 

She swipes through the pictures that caught Nesta smiling. Her eldest sister has a beautiful secretive smile that melts with her elegant demeanour, highlighting the devastating beauty of her features. Nesta carries herself with the grace of a powerful monarch and thinks of herself as one- and righteously so. There are few women Elain has met that rival Nesta's elegance and pride. 

Elain sends her elder sister the picture she snapped of Nesta sitting in the second outdoor venue at night, her navy bridesmaid dress standing out against the dark sky with the lights around her. She has that small smile on her lips as she sits cross-legged, her blue eyes amused and twinkling as if she and Elain shared a private joke. 

Elain swipes some more and one picture makes her freeze. 

It takes her a moment to recognise whom she's photographed with before she recognises -with a laugh escaping her before she can stop herself- that it's Azriel. 

They're standing in the doorway between the indoors and outdoors venue, illuminated by the lights from indoors and outdoors, background a dark starry night fitting their clothing. It takes Elain a moment to adjust to the expression on her face. 

She was smiling. It's nothing new. She was smiling all day. But it's complimented in a different way next to the -frankly- handsome man next to her. 

She frowns, zooming in on them both. 

The most eye-catching complimentary thing about them is their height difference. Elain's heels that night had put her at a height that's only slightly shorter than him. He was dressed in a black tuxedo tailored to his fit by Rhysand's mother, Farida Blackwood, who designed and made their tuxedos and dresses. When Feyre told her the famous fashion designer was making her wedding dress, Rhys's suit, the bridesmaid dresses and the groomsmen suits, Elain was both ecstatic and in awe, barely containing herself from screaming her heart out. 

She has to give even more credit to her work. There was so much to take in that day -Feyre's dress for one- that she hadn't properly appreciated the stunning work that went in. Azriel's tuxedo fit him like a glove, his medium-length haircut consisting of a swept-back style, revealing his face clean-shaven and sharp jaw. She remembers this man clearly, but cannot seem to find a way to connect him with the man babysitting her daughter. 

She tries to pinpoint what is so vastly different about them both; four years couldn't have that drastic of an effect on a person's appearance. 

Azriel stood next to her, shoulders backed, hands clasped together at the front, head slightly tilted to the side, a smile on his lips slightly revealing the top row of his teeth. Elain herself was fully smiling, doing the pose she struck in almost every photo taken of her, and yet it looks strange. 

She looks strange to herself; not just like a familiar dream she wants to relive desperately (what wouldn't she give to go back to that year?), but it seems odd as if it fits perfectly, like two puzzle pieces. Everything about the photo is complimenting. Maybe it's the colouring, the tactful lighting, their clothes, their height, their own features but Elain had never had a photo taken of her that feels perfect.

She looks at it for too long, studying their clothing, their shoes and their faces. She favours the picture, intending to ask Nesta about it when she sees her again- her sister had been the one to comply with her request to take the photo with the groomsman. 

She remembers catching him in the doorway, abandoning Graysen by the railing overlooking the sea to grab her sister and hurry over to the man. She wanted a picture with everyone; she had managed to steal Rhys for several photos with him and got Cassian -whom she got on with amazingly- to take some selfies with her as well as professional photos. The only man she was missing was Rhys's brother, who seemed the only person still running around to uphold his best man duties. She remembers working with him to introduce guests to each other and guide people to their seats. 

It's frustrating how little she remembers him. When she met him again on Monday, it felt like meeting a whole new person. 

She recollects that he was mesmerising, in a way that made her want to work with him through all the events of their siblings' wedding. She had wanted to stay by his side, carry out her duties with him, and collaborate. There was something irresistible about the rhythm they shared; an error would come to their attention and he'd only start to say the words to what they needed to do before she'd run off to fetch one thing or the other without needing to hear the rest of his sentence. They had wordlessly guided guests to their seats, tipped the wedding vendors, solved quick inconveniences. 

Elain sends him the picture, typing out an accompanying message. 

_-I just found this in my gallery. It's a beautiful picture, isn't it? :)_

Right after she hits send does her eyes stray to the time and she horrifyingly slaps her hand to her forehead. It's 3:40.

Quickly exiting WhatsApp, she goes back to her photos and continues going through them. 

A minute later her phone buzzes with a received notification. Azriel. 

Despite herself, she opens the message immediately.

_=I didn't need to be put under siege like this. I looked like that while I look the way I do now?_

Elain doesn't stop her fast typing fingers. _i think you look fine now._

_=I'm not blind. I know how I look. You still look the same, though. I guess just more tired._

She fights off a smile. She has to concede; as of the last time she saw him, his wavy hair was all over the place even if he had combed it, his hazel eyes were circled with dark rings, the beginnings of a scruffy beard on his jaw, his clothing casual. He looks ragged and worn down, in a relaxed way. It's an extreme opposite to the uptight man she remembers. 

_-having a kid and two jobs does that. what's your excuse?_

_=Lazy. I'm just tired._

_-why are you up, by the way? I'm really sorry if i woke you._

He takes a while to reply, reminding Elain of his inability to quickly reply. She sets out to end the conversation immediately, for his benefit.

_=This is my work phone. I can't ignore it._

She bites her lips, internally cringing. She should have made the connection. Winnie sighs heavily by her side, reminding her of her daughter's presence. 

_-i'm really sorry._

_=It's not a problem. Here's my personal one if that's okay with you._

She receives the number in the following message. She doesn't know why but a smile stretches her lips when she receives it. 

_=Why are you up? Is everything ok?_

She can hear it exactly in the deep soothing tone of his that had solved problems at the wedding and gave steady orders. 

_=Is Winnie all right?_

Her smile stretches even more. However, she doesn't know how to exactly phrase what's keeping her up.

_-yes, she's ok. everything's all right. I just couldn't go back to sleep :)_

Elain doesn't know what gets over her, but she snaps a quick selfie of Winnie nestled in her side, a part of her viewed in the picture.

_=I'd say I know the feeling but usually, when I manage to sleep I can't wake up. It's falling asleep I have a problem with. Aw, that’s lovely._

_-thank you :) insomnia? that was personal, I'm sorry_

_=of sorts. I don't do well with the dark._

_-really?_

_=oh definitely. I never liked a quiet night. It unnerves me. Shouldn't you be asleep? You looked tired yesterday, you should rest._

_-i am tired actually. i just can't sleep._

_=I usually knock back some sleeping pills when I really can’t. Or watch conspiracy videos on YouTube._

_-oh?_

_=Yes._

_-i can't really do either at the moment._

_=I can bore you with music theories, if you want?_

_-what's your favourite band?_

He types for a long while before he sends a short text. _Can I send a voice message?_

_-of course._

She fumbles for her headphones on her bedside, hurriedly putting one earpiece in and plugging them into her phone. 

"Rebel's asleep next to me so I have to whisper to avoid certain death. Ok, so here's the thing," she hates the wide smile that stretches her lips at once when his quiet voice fills her ear, low and heavy and husky. "That question is like asking me about my favourite book. I can't have one favourite band. But I suppose if I were stranded on an island somehow and to avoid insanity I can pick only one band to listen to, I'd pick Queen, just because.."

The messages play on their own, carrying his voice into her ear. Rain starts pouring down heavily, cascading over the roof and the windows in a light prattle. Elain burrows further under the covers, nestling Winnie in her arms, snuggling her toddler and her thick sweater providing additional cushioning. 

Azriel talks. After three minutes, Elain doesn't concentrate on what he's saying anymore. She's cuddling her child as the rain pours, his soothing deep voice in her ear, her pillow nursing her tired head. It's a warm feeling coursing through her as her eyes steadily slowly open and close with each word he speaks until she's drifting in and out of consciousness. 

The last thing she can recall hearing is his soft voice ten minutes later when her eyes are closed and her mind is shutting down once more. "Goodnight, Elain," he says just before Elain slips away into the land of sleep.

* * *

Azriel knocks on Elain’s door briefly before he grabs the door handle and twists it. They have fallen into a routine of sorts; Elain would unlock the door when she wakes up, he knocks to announce his arrival and lets himself in, they’d have a quick breakfast together in which they share their plans for the day with Winnie ‘eating’ her food. For the last two days, it’s been a custom to find a plate and a mug of coffee set out for him on the kitchen table and a bowl of tuna for Rebel, the two ladies of the house already seated, Elain reading and marking homework.

He would bid them good morning, briefly press a kiss to the top of Winnie’s head and sit across from Elain, letting Rebel out of his sling. Rhys had collected Felix again on Wednesday, the kid going thrashing and protesting against parting with his cousin, aunt and uncle. Elain promised to see him soon.

The door doesn’t budge.

Confused, he tries again and quickly realises Elain must have left it locked. He rings the doorbell and waits.

No one answers.

Frowning, he calls her phone. She must have slept in by accident.

It rings and rings and just as he loses hope, stepping back to glance at the windows- ugh, the curtains are pulled shut- it picks up.

“Ewwo?”

“Winnie?”

“AZEEL! AZEEL MAMA MAMA! AZEEL! SWEEPY MAMA!”

“Winnie, bunny, calm down, where’s Mama?”

It’s only a few seconds that he realises the girl is crying and her voice is cracking. She’s repeating “Mama” over and over, something about sleeping and her panic is infectious.

“Winnie,” it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady. “Can you open the door for me?” he rings the doorbell for emphasis. “Open the door, please. Now.”

He hears her moving, and in his opinion she can’t move fast enough. The clouds are grey, no sunshine to be seen through the thick carpet of grey. It starts to drizzle, droplets falling on his face, thunder rumbling in warning as the wind picks up.

Winnie finally arrives at the front door, and he hears her struggling to open it. “Twist the key,” he instructs, breath getting shorter and more frequent as his stomach churns. “Can you reach it?

The door handle twists slightly, Winnie’s grunts heard through the black door, before it snaps back in place suddenly and she starts crying.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, did you fall? Are you ok?”

“Mama,” she sobs.

“I’m coming, bunny. Just let me in. I’ll see Mama in a second. Ok can you give me the key?”

“What?” she sobs.

Think, he snaps at himself. Think. Exits and entrances. Can you open this door?

“Winnie, go back to Mama, ok? Right now. Can you do that?”

“Mama.”

“Yes. I’m coming inside so I need you out of the way. Ok, bunny?”

He hastily picks Rebel out and sets her on the ground before dashing to his car. He has a lock picking kit somewhere in there. He’s sure. It has to be there.

His hand is shaking as he fumbles in the glove compartment for the kit, tossing items out and ruffling through. He nearly cries when he finds it and is running back to the door, slamming the car door behind him.

He rips off his sling as he gets on his knees, clicking open the kit. His cast is one around his shoulder and forearm, restricting movement of the wounded arm but he moves it all the same, gritting down on his teeth when it attacks the healing bones.

“Winnie talk to me,” his voice comes out a faint shaking whisper. “How’s Mama?”

The girl talks insensibly, speaking at her mother and seemingly trying to wake her up.

_This can’t be happening_ , he catches himself thinking. _Please God no. She can’t be-_

“MAMA!” Winnie screams in anguish through the phone, making him drop the pick and furiously curse as he starts over.

It takes him five minutes of fumbling, figuring out the mechanisms of the lock and jumbling of the handle when it finally opens. He almost sobs, dropping everything in his hands as he dashes inside. Rebel ran in the minute he managed to open the door.

He takes three steps at a time to reach the top floor, and runs straight into the open door of what he assumes is Elain’s door.

Winnie is on her bed, shaking her mother and tears streaming down her face, repeatedly calling for her.

_Oh please no._

Elain’s limp amidst the covers, unresponsive and unmoving. He drops onto the mattress next to her head, moving her-

_Please no_ , he chokes as her head rolls back when he pulls her into his lap. Her head rolls against his elbow, limp in his arms- just like him, just like Milo had and for a second he can see him, blood foaming from his lips, taking his last breaths, heaving for breath, asking for his mum, begging Azriel to hold him, that it hurts and-

“Elain?” his voice trembles as he shakes her, putting his ear to her chest, and holding back a sob when he hears the organ still alive. He listens to her breathing, realises her airways aren’t blocked, but she’s not moving, she’s- “Elain, can you hear me? Elain, please-“

Her eyelids move and something a cross between a gasp and a sob escapes him. They faintly open, just a crack.

“Elain? Stay with me, please. Can you hear me?”

Winnie shakes her mother’s arms as Azriel tries to wake her. Elain doesn’t respond.

“It’s ok,” he tells a teary-eyed Winnie, laying Elain down and taking her pillow. “She’s ok.”

He gathers the pillows and stacks them under her legs, raising them up and covering her with the comforter. He comes back, perches next to her head.

“Elain? Elain can you hear me?”

“Hmm,” is the only sound from her.

“Stay with me please, focus on my voice. Winnie’s talking to you. Talk to her, Winnie.”

He looks around him, spotting her vanity and the assortment of perfumes on them. He looks for the strongest smelling one, spraying it on his wrist before he goes back to her and holds it under her nose.

A second later her eyelids twitch and they open drowsily. It’s a wrong look on her; this slight consciousness on her doesn’t suit her at all. He remembers the woman in the photo from this morning, how it had stunned him for a whole minute before he thought to look at him. Her smile was the widest thing he’d seen in ages- he can’t believe he would have forgotten the details of her, or forget her at all. There was a familiarity that the photograph sparked in him, a fuzzy warm feeling that stole the words from his lips as he stared at the most gorgeous woman he had ever had the privilege of seeing.

“Elain?” he calls loudly again. “Can you hear me?”

“Mama, Azeel. Door. Mama,” Winnie joins in, shaking her mother’s elbow. He wishes that he can understand her muffled words but it’s helping to bring Elain’s senses back.

He presses his lips to her forehead, withdrawing them when her skin is burning with a fever. Her lips are dry and parched, face flushed and sweaty. He had thought she looked off last night, her voice more hoarse and scratchy and her nose red but he had thought it was just the weather and her own exhaustion.

He has never run down a flight of stairs so fast, hurrying to the kitchen where he pours a cup of water and some in a bowl, grabbing a flannel. He snags the reusable plastic straw from the drawer too. For that period of time, there’s nothing on his mind; there’s only the objective to get Elain awake again, his broken arm is moving in its cast with pain that is not even comprehended. He hurries back to her room where Winnie has gotten Elain to mumble things in a barely audible voice.

“Elain, stay with me. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he sits down next to her head, tilting her head to the side to meet her eyes. He repeats her name, over and over until her brown eyes are visible.

“Az?” she mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he wets the rag, squeezing it out and laying it on her forehead. She shivers under his touch, a slight furrow between her eyebrows. He glances at her clothing; a thick black sweater, stifling thick pants. “Winnie, where are Mama’s clothes?”

Winnie points to the large dresser next to the door, sobbing drily and her thumb in her mouth.

He moves the rag to Elain’s neck, holding it against her pulse point. Rebel hops up on the bed, meowing at Elain from her spot next to Winnie. The girl wraps her arms around the cat and buries her face in her fur.

Azriel leaves the rag on her neck, going to the dresser and rummages through the drawers for anything light and cotton. He finds a pair of pyjamas in the third drawer, thin and airy enough and -most importantly- cotton.

He settles himself behind her, setting her head on his knee as he brings the cup of water to her lips.

“Elain?”

“Hmm,” her voice sounds slightly higher.

“You need to drink, come on,” he holds the straw to her lips, anxious ridden as he waits for her to take a sip. “Come on, you’re worrying Winnie.”

He sighs in relief when she finally does. Her eyes keep opening and closing.

It takes him several minutes of talking loudly, treating her fever and making her drink before she can hold her eyes open and look around her.

“What’s-“ her voice cracks. “Happened?”

“You were unconscious,” he answers softly, pushing her damp hair from her face as the rewetted rag sits on her forehead. “You have a fever.”

“Cold.”

“Like I said, fever,” he patiently replies. “Drink the rest of this.”

She finishes the cup, looking around and at Winnie, red-eyed and holding Rebel. She sniffles. Elain blinks, dazed.

“Your clothes are too thick, please put these on instead,” he places the cotton clothes in her lap and refreshes the rag.

She tries to sit up, but he stops her. “Not yet. Wait. Here, let me help you change.”

Her sweater is thick and stiflingly hot as he helps her out of it and replaces it with the short-sleeved cotton, her sweatpants just as uncomfortable.

She sighs in relief, eyes barely staying open as they slowly drift shut.

“No, no,” he props her head upon his knee again after he refills her cup. “Not yet. Come on.”

It takes him ten more minutes of nursing her, talking gently and forcing her to answer questions before she seems to get a grip on her reality.

“What time is it?” she croaks, sniffling. He hands her a tissue.

“7:30,” he replies.

“Oh, God, the school-“

“Won’t fall if you take today off,” he holds her still. “You’ll only get the kids sick.”

She groans, pressing the heels of her hand into her eyes. “My throat..”

“I’ll make you something in a minute,” he tells her. “I need to be sure you won’t drift away again.”

She stays quiet, looking up at the ceiling. “Ok.”

He doesn’t know what he’s stroking her hair for, but he does it anyway.

“You gave us a scare,” he utters gently.

“I’m tired,” she replies, voice hoarse and eyes going bright as they stare up at the ceiling. She blinks the potential tears away quickly. The way her voice cracks resonates with him.

“I know.”

Eventually she manages to sit up, leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. Winnie sits in her lap, Rebel sneaking onto Az’s own, under the petting hands of the anxious toddler. His arm throbs unforgiving, the joints in his knees weak and in pain, the aftermath of the stress leaving him drained. He keeps his head on her forehead, holding the cool cloth there as his heart settles its rhythm.

Elain doesn’t comment on the bandaged hand of his holding her own, but she doesn’t shy from it. Her fingers tightening around his.

-

He makes her text her principal to let him know she’s not coming to class today, and she honestly looks relieved after her phone call with him. When he finds that she looks more awake, he leaves her under the watchful eyes of the two girls and slips away to prepare her something to eat.

She comments something inaudible when he shows up again with a tray bearing two bowls of mushroom soup and bread, accompanied by water and ibuprofen, but he thinks he might have heard the word “superhero”. She gratefully consumes the hot soup and bread in it. Azriel feeds Winnie her own, careful not to spill anything on the bed.

For the rest of the morning, they spend it in Elain’s living room, watching Disney movies and having soup, each pair of them wrapped in a blanket. Winnie and Rebel sit on the carpeted ground, cocooned in Winnie’s floral blanket, Elain covered in her own honeysuckle smelling one before she covered Azriel with it too.

“Thank you,” she says softly as they sit shoulder to shoulder, her hands cupping a bowl of mushroom soup. He hopes in his attentive hands, the smell of soup, the sound of the laundry machine cleaning her bedsheets and covers, the coolness of the flannel, the takeout meal he prepares for her and the hot tea he puts in a thermos when she prepares to leave for the bakery, that she can see the message loud and clear;

_You’re welcome._

* * *

Upon arriving at Golden Crumbs, Elain gets assigned to counter service when the girl who works it, Lena, has to leave early (“Notified beforehand,” Ianthe said pointedly, staring daggers into Elain while she made the croissants). Cerridwen is assigned with her, the duty both a curse and a break at the same time for them. Hart is in an especially foul mood today: Freddie had not deigned to show up again. Working in the front-of-house space allowed them an escape from Hart’s rage and a window of opportunity for Elain to relax, but dealing with customers isn’t Elain’s favourite thing in the world. Neither is it Cerridwen's.

It doesn’t help that Ianthe is giving Elain the special stink eye. Elain doesn’t know what it’s about; she had shown up an hour early today, forsaking the care of the detective for work so her boss’s nasty stare prickles Elain’s conscious and remains at the front of her mind, wondering what on earth she’d done that would warrant that look. 

Not that Elain particularly cares about what she thinks of her, but if she’s being put on the list of people to be fired, she needs to know beforehand. She doesn’t put it past Ianthe to give her the sack the same day.

When they have a brief period of breathing, Elain makes her way over to Cerridwen’s station at the cashier.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” asks Elain while Cerridwen smooths down her apron. “Both of us, crucial bakers, assigned to counter service. I thought it’s because I’m sick. Why is she putting you off your own job, though?”

“I don’t know,” Cerridwen’s usually warm open tone is curt and clipped. Elain frowns briefly. “I think it’s got to do with sales,” she adds. “I saw the charts a couple of days ago. They’re worse than ever.”

“Why would she stop us from doing the thing that attracts customers, then?”

Cerridwen straightens up the station, dark eyes refusing to meet Elain’s. “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I think she’s letting us go.”

“Me, maybe,” concedes Elain, blowing her nose. “You? Never. You’ve been here for years. She’s lucky you haven’t moved on.”

“Lucky,” Cerridwen chuckles. “I can’t find any other place to pay me properly. I leave this bakery, I’ll have to start from scratch again. It took me years to be allowed to make a loaf of bread here, and I graduated from culinary school. Every other place offers me basic wage.”

“Don’t be silly,” Elain rests her elbows over the glass containing the pastries. “You’ve got experience. You’re senior baker, Cerridwen. You’re overqualified for this place.”

“I was only promoted last year. Just a few months before you came. ”

“Shut up!” gasps Elain. “But you’ve been working as one for years!”

“Not officially. Ianthe didn’t give me the salary for it. She only promoted me because the others left and she needed my name for the paperwork.”

“Every day, she just gets more and more of a…”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you demand your pay, though? You should have told her, ‘Listen here, you selfish cow. Either you give me the pay I deserve or you find someone else to work for you.’”

Cerridwen nods, toying with her hands. She’s not one for eye contact and held stares; she prefers to busy herself while she talks to others, and doesn’t speak much during baking- doesn’t speak much at all. “I did.”

“And?”

“She said I’m free to leave if I don’t like the pay,” she says quietly, looking around at the calm bakery. They only have a few customers, sitting far away. “She dared me to find someone who’ll pay me anything higher.”

“Cerridwen, sweetheart, that’s not true. With your resume, you’re qualified to be hired a senior baker. That-“

Cerridwen’s shoulders slump. “For others, maybe the world is straightforward like that. This is how it is.”

“No, it’s not. Why for you? What makes you different-?”

Cerridwen faces Elain, dark eyes holding Elain’s gaze seriously. “Look at me, I’m an African-American black woman whose only family is my sister. If I quit here, I’ll have to start from scratch somewhere else. Washing dishes and sweeping the floor, then years later I’ll be allowed near basic ingredients and told to arrange pastries on dishes. If I’m patient and the others around me quit, then I’ll be told to make the cupcakes or cakes.”

“I- are you sure? I’m sure not all-“

Cerridwen’s dark eyes bore into Elain, making her feel increasingly uncomfortable with the eye contact. “Maybe for a cute mother like you, things are slightly different. But I’m at the bottom of the ladder. Did you notice Zack was promoted to senior baker in two months when he was employed as a junior one? He doesn’t even have a degree, he just has experience in his grandmother’s home business. You’ve been here for a year and were employed as a baker just because of your skill. I had to make tons of batches, show my degree and beg for a job until Ianthe let me clean the dishes. It is different.”

Elain rubs her arms as she sniffs, blinking her bleary eyes. 

“Maybe neither of us have long here. What did you do to make her hate you more today?”

“I don’t know,” Elain shakes her head. “Cross my heart. Honest to God. I don’t think it’s about being late that time, is it?”

Cerridwen shrugs. “Maybe it’s better to have a backup plan?”

“My backup plan to being fired from this job is crawling into a hole and dying.”

Snorting, Cerridwen shakes her head, a smile on her lips. The door swings open, making them both straighten up and automatically plant the fakest welcoming smile on their lips. Cerridwen softens when it turns out it’s her sister, Nuala.

The bright-eyed woman grins broadly when she catches sight of them and beelines to them. Elain was shocked to find out they’re twins; they don’t look identical and only faintly resemble each other. Nuala is the shorter one with more ardour to her, her hazel eyes tend to take a greenish-yellow colour, framed with dark lashes. Cerridwen’s the more reserved one, darker eyes, taller and slimmer.

“Hello, sis. Elain.”

“Hi,” smiles Elain, turning her back on them to cough into her elbow. She spots a customer standing by the glass cases, pondering the pastries. “Oh, duty calls. Excuse me.”

When she serves the indecisive customer their French strawberry tart and comes back to Nuala and Cerridwen, the latter is chuckling and the former apparently singing something under her breath.

“ _I can’t go on without you,_ ” she drums her fingers on the cashier as she sang the line.

“I need to ask you to stop listening to rock bands.”

“Ah well, you know I don’t. Az rubs off on me.”

“Az?” Elain immediately perks up. “Azriel Bougainvillea?”

“The one and only,” Nuala confirms, bobbing her head. “Why?”

“Oh he babysits for me. Do you work together?”

A different smile tugs her lips, a mischievous light glowing in Nuala’s eyes. “Oh definitely, we’re partners. So you’re the woman he’s babysitting for, huh? Never would have guessed.”

“Yes you would,” Cerridwen corrects quietly.

“He’s really... ah, committed to helping you out,” Nuala says, looking like she’s holding back a laugh.

“He’s amazing,” agrees Elain. “My life is ten times easier thanks to him.”

“Ah. Being a good boy, is he?”

“What else is he?”

“A damn nuisance, I’ll tell you that. Bane of my existence, thorn in my side, the wet sock on my feet if you will.”

Cerridwen sighs.

“He drives us nuts,” goes on Nuala, seemingly complaining about her partner is a routine thing because the list is rattled off without hesitance. “Helion’s getting grey hairs thanks to him and his hotheadedness. He made Lucien cry at least three times last month. He steals my food. He steals Varian’s stationery- though to be fair, everyone steals Varian’s stationery; they’re really cool. He gave me caffeinated coffee when I asked for decaf. He plays rock music when it’s getting late. I can go on and on-“

“Are we talking about the same man?” Elain can’t see the man she knows being the one Nuala is talking about.

“Oh definitely. Certified asshole he is. He’s the rudest man on this planet, he speaks little but when he does it’s always to ruin someone’s esteem or roast them. He’s horrible. I love him.”

Elain chuckles. “We don’t seem to have the same impression of that man. He’s the most pleasant person I know.”

“Behaving himself, is he?” Nuala grins. “Apologizing for the mess he makes, tries to make something edible and burns it accidentally?”

Elain frowns and shakes her head. “No. He cleans up my house, plays with Winnie, cooks for her, texts me everything.”

Nuala’s shark-like grin seems like that of someone who came across the Holy Grail regarding their friend. “Does he now?”

Cerridwen, sensing Nuala’s upcoming further prying, cuts in. “What’re you here for?”

Nuala’s smile and amusement fade away as her tone sobers. “Fredrick Black’s body showed up on the west Sidra banks. It looks like a suicide, but he came into sudden cash before he died. I wanted to ask you guys some questions about him, and your manager.”

Cerridwen gasps. Mouth hanging open, Elain shares the sentiment before she sneezes into a tissue.

“Freddie? Oh no,” whispers Cerridwen. “Hart’s fuming inside because he’s been slacking off. He was just a kid.”

“Who came into sudden money before his death,” gently Nuala says. “We suspect foul play. Can I talk to you guys and take some statements?”

Dazed, Elain nods right before a pair of hands lands heavily on her and Cerridwen’s shoulders. The latter immediately flinches, shying away from Ianthe’s bejewelled hand on her.

Like magic, Nuala’s sympathetic expression disappears, replaced with a fierce look in her glaring eyes and a snarl twisting her lips. “Take your hand off her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dears,” Ianthe snatches her hands away immediately. “Is there something the matter?”

Nuala straightens, pulling out her detective badge. “My name’s Nuala Hoyle, I’m a detective at the Velaris State Police Department. The body of one of your workers washed up on the river banks, Fredrick Black. I’d like to ask a few questions to you and these ladies.”

“Oh, my. That’s horrible,” Ianthe’s airy voice carries remorse. “Freddie was such a wonderful boy.”

“Before he died he came into sudden cash. We were wondering about them. Can you give us any pointers?”

“Oh I wouldn’t be able to answer that,” Ianthe’s fair eyebrows furrow together. “Maybe they’re his savings? He was a young man with his dreams after all.”

“A job here allows him to save up to half a million dollars?”

Ianthe stills, a small uncomfortable smile on her lips that’s closer to a grimace. “What my workers do out of the workplace is not my business.”

“Clearly,” Elain scoffs under her breath before she closes her eyes and rubs her forehead. She’s getting the sack, definitely.

“Are you implying he had a second job?”

“I’m saying I don’t know anything, Detective.”

“Can I have a look around?”

Ianthe stiffly smiles. “Do you have a warrant?”

Nuala returns the stiff smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I was hoping there wouldn’t be anything to warrant looking,” she answers quietly, her tone softens as the stony look in her eyes hardens. “Is there anything I wouldn’t like seeing?”

“I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating, detective.”

Nuala steps closer as her smile disappears completely. “I’ll be clear then. We found a large stash of cocaine in his room-” at Elain’s soft gasp, three pairs of eyes snap to her before Nuala looks back to Ianthe. Cerridwen doesn’t. “-at his mother’s apartment and half a million dollars. Now an underage boy like Freddie will have a hard time obtaining mass amounts of cocaine like that on his own. I was hoping you’d be able to shed some light on his relations and social circles.”

Ianthe rubs her eyes. “Perhaps my office is a more suitable place to speak, Detective.”

“Certainly, Miss Villan.”

When Ianthe and Nuala disappear from sight, Elain whirls to Cerridwen, eyes wide and mouth open. “There-!”

Cerridwen immediately pinches her thigh under the counter, face stony and revealing nothing. Her lips barely move as she speaks quietly. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“But-“

“Ssh,” Cerridwen’s gaze dart nervously around the front-of-house space. “Don’t breathe a word to anyone. Do you hear me?”

Faint and feeling woozy, Elain crouches down and sits heavily on the floor. She hugs her knees to her chest as a rush of panic washes over her and sets her chin over them.

She’s not daft or wholly naïve. She knows of the business trade of illegal substances, she’s seen enough documentaries just enough to tell her about the reality of her world, but it’s never registered in her mind that she would be so close to it herself. Oh and Freddie- that’s why he’s been disappearing and neglecting his job.

The other day, had he chanced upon a treasure trove when he offered to clean up for her? How long did he go before the greed gripped him and drove his slight hand to scoop more than it was supposed to?

Cerridwen crouches down before her. “Elain, you can’t tell anyone about this. I can’t tell Nuala anything. You and I are already hanging on a thin string with Ianthe. She thinks you have something to do with it and she thinks I’m selling her out. You have to be careful, please, do you understand?”

Wide-eyed, Elain nods shakily.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I am a puzzle, this is the moment in which I find the first corner piece. There is still a lot of work to do; I still have a thousand pieces of myself to fit into place. But everyone knows you're supposed to find the corners first. They are the beginning."  
> -Some Kind of Happiness, Claire Legrand.

_1999, June._

It was of the weather's business in June for the days to be hot and the nights cool. School was out, the summer holidays having rolled into the secluded town of small Adriata, and the world was a playground for the children to conquer.

Of the partnered children that grouped together to spend the days together roaming the streets on bicycles, one of them was a small troop of four mavericks joined together in a mismatched form: a brown English boy who lived his whole life in the states but spent his holidays in England; a boy living with his single black mother and of a dead father; a girl who wore too-long sleeves and shorts styled with vivid hairbands and cheap accessories made from crafts stores; and a quiet snappy Albino boy who had more fire to spit than the icy rage in his eyes warned. 

They called themselves ‘The Misfits’, a name born when the second boy happened across the word on the rare occasion he was reading a book - in fact, forced to when his mother put him under house arrest for blowing up the boys changing room in their school- and they gave themselves code names. 

Raven, Blackbird, Barn Owl and Maverick.

They were of different backgrounds, different stories and pasts, but they came forth to join their days. They made rude jokes, pulled pranks, fought their respective bullies and earned their places in the hierarchy of middle-school. During the summer holidays, they played together all day and went home just before nightfall and the fireflies’ awakening, trailing twigs and mud onto the carpets of their homes.

It was just the four of them; Rhysand, Cassian, Morrigan and Kallias. Until one day, Rhysand showed up with a quiet boy at his side and announced his mother now had him to take the boy with him everywhere. 

It was obvious neither Cassian nor Rhysand wanted the new boy around, the former's rude attitude and cruelty speaking for itself and Rhys's silence an indication of his thoughts enough. Cassian made fun of the odd-looking boy: he poked fun at his skinny state, his odd hands, his large eyes, his quietness. He even pushed him into the river and would yell at him to give him a response. 

The teasing never stopped until Morrigan put her foot down for good and slapped Cassian after he shoved the boy into the ground during the first week- and thanks to the sacred laws of children, he could not hit her back because she was a girl and so Blackbird retreated and settled on ignoring the boy completely. 

Kallias didn't give much attention to him but he often regarded the boy quietly, observing him from afar and trying to understand his strange behaviour. The boy was different and strange, and thus fit the criteria for The Misfits so he didn't mind having him around. 

The only person who seemed to acknowledge the presence of the boy was the girl, Morrigan, who from day one began the process of striking up a friendship with him. She had conversed with him, or at least tried to. She introduced herself and everyone else and asked for his name. 

"A-Azriel B-B-Bougainvellia," he responded as he was taught to say when someone asked for his name. 

"Az," she smiled brightly, blonde hair gathered in various braids and bunched together in a ponytail. He thought that he had never seen something like her before- radiant, he’d later learn was the word he was looking for. "I'm Mor. That's Cassian, and this is Kallias."

He remained silent, his hazel eyes moving from one face to another but his lips were silently wording the names. Cassian, Kallias, Mor. She was the easiest to remember because her name sounded like the word 'more' which he'd been taught and remembered hearing frequently around the house. 

"What's the deal with him?" Asked Cassian to Rhys on the first day where they met in their usual spot on the banks of the river. 

Stony faced Rhys roughly skipped the flat stone in his hands and it flopped upon impact, sinking and not skipping. There was an angry look in his eyes when he answered: "Mum and Dad replaced Ella with him. They say he's my brother."

"Damn, bro," whistled Cassian as Rhys rounded up on him. "That's sick."

"He's a freak," Rhys grounded out through clenched teeth. "He doesn't speak, they have strangers at the house all the time because of him, they take him to doctors all the time. They put him in Ella's room. They took her stuff down. I hate him. I hate him."

Friday night, Azriel is happy to be back in his home after the trainwreck he had been through so early in the day. Elain properly frightened him, Winnie’s crying even more so and he had been more shaken than he would like to admit but it remains the straight truth; the exhaustion in his bones, the tense points in his muscles and the weariness in him say it blatantly. 

He yearns for a hot shower that would relax his muscles and scrub the week from his skin and his memory with the exception of the pleasantries. His appointment with his doctor is due two weeks later, where it’ll be made clear just how bad he’s fucked up his broken bones. There’s a nagging worry in his head that something’s wrong because the pain has only increased tenfold at the end of the week. If it weren’t for painkillers, Azriel wouldn’t be sleeping or making it through the day.

Checking his phone, he notices a received text from Rhys checking up on him. Gnawing on his lower lip, he considers asking his brother a favour. No one said anything about showering- just getting his cast wet. If he manages to not get it wet, somehow, then perhaps he can.. Get around it. 

Rhys picks up after a few seconds of ringing. When Azriel voices his request, he goes quiet for a bit before agreeing. His brother is renowned for the number of times he’s broken his bones and had casts on, so if there’s anyone who can help him, it’s Rhys.

Mrs Blackwood said she had prepared him a whole haul of clothes he can wear that can accommodate his cast and the cold weather but they have yet to be successfully shipped so Azriel made the additional small request of Rhys finding him something to wear- the one hoodie Azriel’s been wearing can only be worn so many days in a row even if he washes it.

An hour later, the knock on his door announces Rhys’s arrival. He quickly lets him inside, not allowing him the chance to take a breather before he tugs him towards the bathroom. 

"I'm pretty sure I'll die of a bacteria at this point," Azriel says as he works to take his hoodie off, Rhys helps it off him with a sigh. "Thanks for coming."

Rhys's blue eyes don't meet his, dim and distant as he unbuckles Az's belt and unbuttons his jeans for him before he quietly takes off his own jacket and walks out, coming back a minute later in an old t-shirt streaked with dried paint and sweatpants. 

"I'd have my head bitten off if something happened to you because I wasn't looking after you," he replies with a flashing faint joking smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, grabbing the packet in the plastic bag set on the sink and opening it. Azriel eyes the plastic wrap warily wondering how they're going to fit it over his cast as Rhys unfolds it. 

His brother quietly fits it over his whole left arm, skilled fingers tenderly holding the wrap over the cast and Azriel's skin before bringing out a blue curious band that he wraps tightly at the ends of the plastic wrap, the tight effect taping the thing in place. 

Rhys's silence prickles Azriel's skin. The attorney isn't one to love the sound of his voice, but it's uncommon for him to be completely wordless. Normally, Rhys is inquiring after Azriel’s wellbeing or sharing some incident Felix caused, sometimes sharing news about Feyre's latest endeavours in the art industry. 

"Ok," Rhys pipes up in the quiet, running his fingers over the edges to ensure its coverage. He walks to the shower and turns it on, holding his hand under the water before stepping back and gesturing Azriel get in. 

"Do you prefer hair or body first?" asks Rhys as ِAzriel fixes the water temperature.

Azriel grimaces. His showers are lengthy and he doesn't have a specific routine. He shrugs, followed by a contemplating look on Rhys's face. In the end, they go with attending to Azriel's hair first. 

The wounded man tries to dissect his brother's silence as Rhys quietly lathers shampoo into his hair and scrubs his scalp. Every thought is abruptly cut off every time the other man's nails scratch his head, replacing a relaxed sensation that takes over his thoughts. 

"Are you ok?" He finally asks as Rhys quietly rinses away the shampoo. 

"Hm? Yeah, I'm fine," he replies absentmindedly. 

"How's Feely?"

A smile briefly turns up his lips. "Twat," Rhys says fondly. "He tried to dig a hole in the wall for treasure." 

"That imagination is thanks to the cartoons he watches."

"Yeah, I've banned Tom and Jerry. He doesn't really understand the laws of cause and effect. He was running around my room when I was going to iron my shirt this morning and ran face-first into the iron-"

"Fuck.."

"And he got upset when his face didn't look like it and said something is wrong with him."

"It wasn't turned on, was it?"

"No, I kicked him out of the room after that."

Rhys finishes rinsing out the shampoo and briefly scratches his head while he considers the next step. "Body wash?"

"I'm out," Azriel remembers, slicking his fringe back. "Just use the soap."

Rhys picks up the seemingly empty bottle, looking inside. "You got a bit left."

"Save it for my back then."

Rhys nods and when he takes the soap, starting Azriel's right arm for him, the heavy silence descending over them brings to Azriel's mind a brilliant sentence-

_Don't say it, don't say it, don’t fucking say it-_

"Don't drop the soap," he grins. 

Azriel’s learned long ago never to underestimate the healing properties of a joke. The corny saying _laughter is the best medicine_ comes to his mind as it sinks into Rhys's mind. His faraway expression and the furrow between his eyebrows disappears, replaced with that missing boyish gleam in his eyes before he ducks his face into his elbow, shaking as he laughs that disbelieving wheezing laugh of his. It was Rhys who taught him humor when they were kids; Azriel learned many things from many people, but his brother is the one who showed him the customisable version of the world, the tools their humor. 

"Oh you're bad," Rhys coughs for breath as he heaves for breath, straightening, eyes tearing up and face red. While Rhys has tuned down his sense of humor since joining the field of law (what with one word implicating ten thousand meanings and all- everything offending anyone and everyone), Azriel’s has only grown with the gore of his job. And Rhys loves it- Azriel takes pride in his grin and his laughter. "You're _bad_. God, was that your ticket to Hell?"

Azriel smiles sheepishly before Rhys sniffs, wiping his tears briefly and going back to scrubbing Azriel's held-out arm. He keeps quietly giggling every now and then, the silence duplicating the joke in his mind. 

"Take this," Rhys hands him the bar of soap chuckling, reaching for the body wash. 

Azriel really hadn't meant for it to slip from his fingers as he tries to put it in the shower niche- he really hadn’t- but it falls right onto the shower floor with a thud. He grins. 

"Oops. I dropped the soap."

The body wash bottle clatters to the ground as Rhys turns away and doubles over, roaring with laughter, face flushing alarmingly before he hides it behind his t-shirt, wiping away his tears. "Honestly, fuck you, man."

Grinning, Azriel picks up the fallen items and carefully sets them back in place as Rhys regains his composure. Rebel appears in the doorway at the commotion, setting her unblinking sight on Rhys. 

Feeling the unknown crack in the bridge between them heal, Azriel relaxes enough as Rhys then helps him with his back. Their silence feels easier to navigate, now that Azriel knows Rhys isn't upset with him.

"I feel like an invalid," he admits quietly while Rhys scrubs his back. 

"You're not," responds his brother, voice lighter and easier. "We did this for Cassian when he got back, remember? It's what friends and family do. We care for each other."

"Cassian had lost a leg," Azriel reminds him, recalling exactly how the pair of them flocked to the marine soldier once he got home. It had been just before Felix's birth four years ago, and though Azriel had to fight both himself and Charles to help Cassian adjust to being back home, he had done his best with Rhys by his side. 

"You've temporarily lost an arm," Rhys notes fairly. "Helping you is what I'm supposed to do. If you can't turn to your brother for help, who can you turn to?"

 _No one,_ Azriel thinks, thinking of how true that is. Rhys does a lot more than just help Azriel. Rhys has been his rock, his safe home, the place he can turn to for help. He has been since the years of college, with no complaint.

Rhys hadn't responded well to the adoption of Azriel during the first few years. He had deigned not to approach him at all, found him alien and weird and an unbearable weight he was asked to carry. The fact that Azriel was brought into home right after his sister passed away stung him more than he could admit. Azriel knows. Knows because a teenage Rhys screamed that at him once, sobbing and in tears when he got into a fight with his parents and Azriel had sought him out at school. 

Azriel came as an unspoken replacement for his sister, and soon her name wasn't uttered with the frequency it used to. Ella suffered from paralysis all her life, and her death had struck her family hard. Rhys's mother, Farida, couldn't cope with the loss of her child and the emptiness it left behind. As soon as she discovered him in the hospital, her life's mission became to give him the attention and treatment he needed. 

"Thank you," he says softly, eyes trained on the wall. 

Rhys's hands pause on his shoulder before they move again, kneading the muscle as well as cleaning it. "You're welcome."

"And I'm sorry. About what I said to you back then. I haven't apologized yet."

Rhys stills once again, casting his thoughts to the fight they had a few years back. "Your response and what you did means more to me," he tells him truthfully. "I don't want one if you don't do anything to change. That you left him behind is all I want for you. You're doing good now. I'm proud of you."

Azriel blinks the sharp stinginess in his eyes away. Good. Doing good- had he been doing good this week? 

Running into Charles soured his mood beyond repair. He had felt upset, his gut churned and was sore. 

When he found himself back home that night, he curled into the first corner he could find, not bothering to turn on the lights as he pressed himself into the walls and hid his head between his knees. He trembled and jumped with every sound that came from Rebel, and accidentally remembered the porcelain smashing on the wall over his head when he had said he was going to spend time at Cassian's place to be by his side. Charles had been out of his mind, throwing one cutlery after the other and threatening to kill himself if Azriel left.

His half-brother was.. too much work. Too much abuse. Just too much. What made Azriel finally leave was when Charles threatened Rhys and Cassian’s wellbeing. That had been the deal-breaker for Azriel; any internal conflict he had was resolved after the threat against his friends was made. 

"What's doing good?" He asks quietly, staring at the shower wall. "How do I know if I am?"

"Well," Rhys responds, turning on the water. "You're on your two feet. You're breathing. You're going to work. You're helping out a mother. You're giving a rescue pet a home. You've come this far in your life- don't forget what you've been through. And you're as successful as your colleagues, even more. You're doing brilliantly,” he pauses. “Here, I’m done. When you're finished, give me a shout. Have you eaten?"

"Uh no. There are a few microwavables in the freezer." 

Rhys nods, and just as he is about to close the door, Azriel stops him. 

"Hey,” he hesitates, tone soft. “Why don't you stay and have dinner? Watch a movie or _Game of Thrones_?" 

"I'm catching up on that with Feyre," Rhys shakes his head. "I'll take you up on _Stranger Things_." 

Azriel smiles and nods. Rhys, tired-looking and spent, smiles before he closes the door behind him.

It's a relief for Azriel to be back under the hot water. The cast is not welcome, neither the plastic wrap but after a week of basic washing and having to make do with one available arm, this feels like a luxury; the scalding hot water, the patter of water drops on his skin a cleansing reprieve from the weeks of dust that has gathered on his skin, literal and emotional. 

Turning off the water and wrapping a towel around his waist, he calls Rhys back who replaces the long wrap with the shorter one, allowing him to wash the exposed skin. 

Rhys unwinds the bandage around his left hand carefully, revealing the stitched puncture wound in his palm that Azriel had managed to get from his chase of Macmillan. What piques his interest instead and makes his eyebrows jump together slightly and turn to Az with a questioning look are the other, relatively newer cuts that look deep. 

"What happened?" Rhys asks lightly, rolling up the old bandage and tossing it away as Azriel steps back in the shower and cleans what is bare of his arm. 

"Glass broke in my hand," Azriel answers, scrubbing his skin roughly. "I didn't notice."

Rhys leaves briefly and comes back with the first aid kit from Azriel's bedside table. "What pissed you off?"

Azriel takes his time answering only doing so when he turns off the water and steps out again, toweling his arm. 

"I ran into Charles on Monday," he says quietly while Rhys removes the cover from his wrap. For his part, Rhys's calm composure doesn't waver and only makes an acknowledging hum in answer. The only change is the twitch of his eyebrows and the skin around his eyes.

"I hadn't expected to see him again."

"What did you do?" Rhys's bows his head, face obscured as he carefully dries his skin and begins applying the ointment and square cloths to the wounds. 

"Told him to fuck off," Azriel responds, scoffing. "I got mad. Really mad."

"The glass breaking was on purpose?"

"No-yes- not like that. I was thinking about what he said and it broke."

Rhys quietly wraps his hand, deft fingers quickly wrapping up the wounds and tucking the end away. He straightens and looks Azriel in the eye. "You left him behind. This doesn't mean he's back."

Azriel rubs his damp hair with the towel, nodding with a grimace. "I know. The paranoid mindset just settled for a while."

Rhys seems to be carefully selecting his words as he packs everything away and closes the box. "Well. He's not in your life anymore. He's not hurting you. You know that, right?"

Out of all his friends, Rhys is the only person he's entrusted with just how deep Charles's claws sunk. It seemed fitting to him, appropriate, that his true brother would be the one to know about his false one. 

Azriel nods, allowing himself this one moment of vulnerability he can only have with Rhys. It's hard to come to his friends about the twisted trauma that plagues him sometimes, especially when it triggers their own and they're not anymore knowledgeable. Rhys is the one with the easiest upbringing, a proper start, that has lent him the appropriate strength to shoulder everything life gave him later on healthily. 

"I decided on the lasagna," Rhys says. "Get dressed and I'll put on the show. I can't stay long, so I can promise you two episodes."

"Stay," Az suggests. "You love my couch. Rebel won't be too upset about you taking it."

A smile touches his lips. "I miss my kid. Felix asked to spend more time with me. Can't deny him."

In the end, when he comes out of his room dressed in a large soft sweater courtesy of some quick shopping by Rhys, feeling refreshed and infinitely better and joins his brother on his couch, the first episode of Stranger Things rolling on and hot lasagna in their hands, Rhys falls asleep before twenty minutes have passed. 

Azriel decides to give him till the end, as he wakes up and falls back asleep several times, his dinner abandoned on the coffee table and substituted for a cushion in his arm. Rhys claims he's not sleeping, but he's legs kicked out, arms spread, head knocked back and eyes definitely shut and mouth parted. Eventually, he settles on 'resting his eyes', curling under the blanket, hugging the cushion and regarding the screen with tired bleary blue eyes that open and close every few seconds before he is knocked out for good. 

Azriel takes a moment to regard him; Rhys is the youngest of them (excluding his wife) but looks the oldest, shouldering the weight of the world. He was the first to mature, forced to early on to pick up that mantle of responsibility, and seeing him asleep like that; nose buried in the blanket that wraps around him up to his ears, black hair falling into his face lined with worry even when he's asleep, Azriel is subjected to another onslaught of heavy emotions. 

He picks up his phone after he mutes the television, about to contact Feyre when he notices a text message from Elain. 

It's a video; he curiously clicks on it and immediately beams when he recognises the silhouette of Winnie as the video loads. 

"Okay, go," Elain's voice sounds off screen as Winnie sits on her mother's bed, rocking back and forth and playing with her fingers. 

"Um um," Winnie's high voice starts slowly as she rocks her little frame back and forth. "Aaaa beee ceee deee eee huff gee jay kay elemonopeeeeee....eee..."

"Q.." suggests Elain. 

"Ar es tee vee u eeeee..." Winnie sings, more with the rhyme and tune than the actual words- or letters, in this case. "Eeeessss..... Esssss um esss..."

"W.."

"Bubble you ex what and zeeeee! Now I know abceeeee..." More humming. Azriel's lips soundlessly say the next bit, smiling around the lyrics. "ababa sing WIFF MEEEEEEEEE!"

"Good girl!" Elain praises as Winnie claps for herself and starts screeching, throwing herself back on the mattress. "Who taught you that?"

Azriel smiles as Winnie enthusiastically responds: "AZEEL!"

Damn right he had.

“Azeel’s a good teacher?”

Winnie nods eagerly, cute round cheeks and a cheeky smile. Azriel can’t stop his smile. 

“Did you say thank you to Azeel?”

“Tant you, Azeel!” The girl responds immediately. He has to grab a cushion and choke it in a hug as his face splits in a smile and his chest is too small for this inflated feeling that’s blowing it up. Too cute, too adorable for him to be able to handle; he hadn’t been able to handle it face to face either. No hug was tight enough, or smile too big or kiss enough to convey the joy the little girl incited in his heart with her presence and mispronounced word and his mispronounced name on her lips. 

“Yes, thank you, Azeel,” murmurs Elain. “Will you say good night to him?” 

“What?”

“Tell Azeel good night.”

“Nighty-Night Azeel!” 

“Good night, Azriel.”

He stuffs the cushion between his teeth and bites hard on it as he internally screams. His eyes briefly sting with the suppressed emotion before he sits straighter and replays the video, completely forgetting what he had picked up his phone for originally. After the third time of being bid goodnight by the girl and her mother, he finds himself able to format a reply. 

_=This is just too much for my heart. She learned her song well. I’m so proud. You need to watch out or I’ll steal your job from you, Elain._

Five minutes later -in which he did _not_ replay the video to feel that damned joy again, thank you very much- Elain types back a response. 

_-You teach a two year old the ABC song and suddenly you have a degree in Education? Sure, I figured out who the English teacher has the hots for, maybe I should solve crime next?_

Unable to help himself, he replies; _you’d make a spiffing detective. Criminals would confess with just one look from you._

_-I’d use the ultimate trick up my sleeve to make them talk; no one can resist it._

_=Oh? Care to share the ways only serving you?_

_-Cake_ _😂_ _I bring that bad boy into the room, cut some wholesome chocolate goodness and when they ask to have a cake I’ll tell them that cake is only for people who talk. No one can resist some ice cream chocolate cake._

_=Damn Elain, now I want to confess to everything I’ve done in return for chocolate cake._

_-You can confess, and if you swing by tomorrow you’ll find some really special chocolate cake at Golden Crumbs._

_=I have to pay for my reward?_

_-That’s the catch. I didn’t say it was free. I said you can have some._

_=Well damn you’re good.  
Tough I’d prefer the Elain Deluxe Chocolate Cake to be honest with you. _

She goes quiet for a few seconds, typing and deleting and typing some more before she settles on a message. 

_-Winnie is at her dad’s for the weekend. Why don’t you come by after my shift? We’ll have dinner and maybe I can get you some of that chocolate cake._

He spends a little more than a few seconds staring at the text message with his jaw slack. He doesn’t want to make assumptions -he’s seeing where that is taking him- but the wording is inviting and maybe more than friendly. He spends some time reading into the implications before another message pops up from her.

_-I want to talk to you about a few things._

Eyebrows furrow together as he sits straighter, staring at her message before he manages to type a reply, typing it and deleting it and searching for the appropriate wording.

_=Just to be clear, what sort of invitation is that?_

_-That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t think text would cut it._

Way to go and give him anxiety. 

_-It doesn’t need to mean anything. I just want to tell you a few things._

His throat is dry as he thickly gulps, jumpy knees bouncing up and down. 

_=Good or bad?_

_-Don’t worry_ _😊_ _everything’s fine. I just don’t think texting would do it justice. Chocolate cake is my way of luring you out._

_=Like a shy badger, huh? “Come on out Az, here you go, some of this tasty cake, ooh do you want the tasty cake? Come on boy, come on out, you can have the tasty chocolate cake. Here you go, come on. Come on. Oh you silly badger here you go, GOTCHA.”_

_-_ _😂😂😂_

_=I’m down. What do I bring with me? Chocolate? Wine? Sacrificial offerings? Chicken bones and satanic relics?_

It only hits him after he sends it how silly he’s being. He has specific levels of humour for different people; dry sarcastic wit to strangers, dark jokes to those he’s most comfortable making uncomfortable. But this side of him, it’s not often. It’s silly, eager to amuse and impress. He can’t pin down a specific time or person he has shown such a side too; this part of him is only for his head, things he can’t say aloud, but he’s shooting them off at the teacher who might be affronted if he made the same joke with her that he had with Rhys. 

_-I think dinner itself would suffice_ _😅_ _I don’t have it in me to make some._

Right, he thinks immediately. Foodie Knight In Shining Armour. That’s the best version of him that he has perfected. 

_=How are you and Chinese?_

_-Never tried it really._

_=I’m about to blow your mind tomorrow._

_-I look forward to it. Oh, I don’t drink, by the way. What do you like to have?_

_=Anything you’re having. I don’t mind._

Yep, definitely eager to please. If Rhys was awake he would tell him exactly that. 

_-Okay_ _😁_ _good night._

_=Good night._

Rhys snorts on the couch in his sleep next to him, reminding him of the original reason he picked up his phone. Feyre has already beaten him to texting, sending one on the group chat. 

_Azriel give me my husband back_ _🤬_

_About that. He’s knocked out so he might be a while._

_Ooh, share that surely cursed image._

He snaps a picture of Rhys who’s curled up in the corner, far from looking embarrassing. Feyre seems to think so, what with her 😍❤️ and her _he looks so innocent._

_Sugar Daddy out here looking like a sugar baby._ Cassian. _But he ain’t so innocent, I tell you that._

_Someone put this on a billboard with his office contacts. Feared Rhysand Blackwood won’t have a shred of intimidation left while he looks like that._ Mor. _No one would take him seriously anymore._

Tossing his phone aside, Azriel turns off the television and stands up. After clearing the couch and table, he carefully manoeuvres Rhys into a more comfortable position, putting a pillow under his head and spreading a second blanket at his feet. He clicks his fingers at Rebel perched by the floor-to-ceiling window of the living room, gesturing towards his bedroom before he dims the light and walks out, the cat following closely by his heels. 

Due to a reason he hasn’t yet managed to find out, Rebel often forsakes her bed and insists on sleeping with him. Bed time is of the rare times she’d let him cuddle her; she initiates it herself. Thanks to his dislike of sleeping cuddled or held, he finds himself in bed earlier just to put Rebel to sleep. 

She’s still his baby in that regard; no matter how haughty and mighty she gets during the day, throughout the years, in the end she’s always that little kitten he found wounded in a garbage dump, blindly stumbling into the warmth he offered and desperately needing rescue. 

He gets in bed, turning off all the lights save for the small light plugged above his bedside next to his charger. Rebel follows, waiting for him to lie down and settle before she gingerly picks her way under the covers and right into his arm. He goes through the routine of stroking her fur and head, watching her eyes slowly droop shut. 

It’s a gentleness in him he doesn’t have with anything else. Rebel has made him grow steadily into the man he has been told to be, the man he wants to be; kinder, caring to another being, loving. It’s all the love he has been given and told to pass on, given to this bossy cat who he is spoiling. He’s forever grateful for her. 

And then- then he thinks of the adorable little girl that has come to his attention and has stolen his heart for herself in under a day. And her mother, oh her mother –a smile plays with his lips at that- everything he has ever looked for in a person. 

He might have hugged Rebel a bit more as he snuggles under his covers, staring out of the large window at the glittering lights of the large mountains, a soft smile gracing his face at the thought of the science teacher. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers in a hushed tone to the sleeping cat. “I’m a fool.” 

Elain’s day at the bakery went by slowly. On weekends, she takes longer shifts per agreement with Ianthe and her pay for working from morning to seven are better- they boost her finances enough to allow Elain to stay afloat and be able to keep her and Winnie’s head above water. Sometimes Elain wonders if it’s worth it; she hasn’t spent a fun day with Winnie since she took this job, doesn’t remember the last time she enjoyed herself. 

It’s counter service for her again but without Cerridwen. Since Freddie’s death, Elain’s been assigned to counter service for reasons beyond her other than the suspicion Cerridwen planted in her head about Ianthe suspecting her. It’s safer for Elain, anyway, to stay away from anything potentially incriminating. She doesn’t want anything to do with neither the mobs that run the streets of Velaris state, nor law enforcement. 

Her cold has improved since yesterday. Hot drinks and water are her brandished weapon against the virus. The warmth of the bakery seeps into her extra turtleneck, helping to banish the cold from her bones. There’s only a runny nose and the occasional sneeze left, and Elain can deal with them. 

She zones out around five o’clock, her fake smile plastered on her face as she serves customers and packages their bought pastries. In some way, the steady tasks of making drinks, cutting up cake and packaging takeout relaxes her the way kneading dough and playing with the icing decorations does. 

Her phone starts ringing in her jeans twenty minutes after five, and Graysen’s name is the one lighting the screen. She doesn’t know what the disappointment was all about; she wasn’t expecting someone –maybe _a_ someone- but somehow seeing Graysen’s name makes an exhaustion catch up with her here in her faraway bubble. Sighing, she picks up. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he snaps as a way of greeting. She squeezes her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose as a familiar pressure starts to build there. He’s never an easy person to deal with when he’s at the end of his patience- in fact, he’s completely unbearable. 

She sighs, furrowing her brow. “What?” 

“This kid, I just _don’t know_ what to do. She keeps crying. She won’t shut up.” 

Her free hand clenches into a fist as she stands straighter. “Have you asked her _why_ she’s crying?” 

“What do you think I am?! I have, of course!” 

“And?” 

“I’m sorry! I’m not fluent in toddler talk. She’s talking nonsense.” 

Elain forces herself to smooth out her hand on the counter and to count to three. “Has she eaten? Did she nap? Is she entertained?” 

“I did everything,” he snaps, voice shrill. Elain winces at Winnie’s harsher screaming in the background. Her toddler isn’t above temper tantrums, especially when she began teething- she was the toughest to handle back them. 

“Try talking to her-“ 

“Elain if she had a mind I would-“ 

“She’s not _dumb_ ,” her nostrils flare. “She’s intelligent. She’s probably bored. Talk to her. Entertain her.” 

“I tell you I’ve tried everything!”

“Graysen I swear to God I don’t know which one of you is being the baby,” her temper gets the better of her. “She’s _two._ Ask her about her toys, just pay attention to her!” 

“Elain-!” 

“Ask her about Azriel,” she shoots, the realisation that the man has never complained about her daughter to her not failing to grace her. 

“What’s that?” he snaps back.

“Her friend. Just ask her about Azriel, she’ll calm down.” 

“God’s sake, hold on,” he heaves a heavy sigh as if asking him to entertain his daughter is the weight of the world put on his shoulder. Elain’s nails dig into her palm- this is what has bothered her about him since Winnie’s birth. Graysen wanted a baby that could clean itself, use the bathroom, entertain itself and just occasionally play with him and be cute. Elain had to explain, time and time again, that it doesn’t work that way. He didn’t seem to have a grasp on what parenthood is- still doesn’t, if the terse and flat way he speaks with Winnie is any indication. 

“Hey, Winnie,” he raises the pitch of his voice. “Hey, Hey, look at me. Look at Dada. Who’s Azriel?”

“What?” Winnie is heard hiccupping.

“Azriel, Azriel, who’s that?”

It soon turns out to be a mistake to remind the girl of her current friend because she wails louder, this time her whining sounding more of sadness than grumbling moans. The girl wails her friend’s name and Graysen is heard softly cursing.

“Put on a movie for her-“ Elain begins suggesting before he interrupts her.

“I can’t do this, I’m sorry, I can’t. You need to come get her.”

“Are you serious?!” her quiet voice snaps before she remembers herself and lowers her voice. “You said you wanted her on the weekend-“

“Yeah, when she’s tolerable-!”

“She is _two!_ ” Elain hisses venomously. “You can’t just call yourself her dad and want her when she’s calm.”

“Elain I got other things to do. I can’t listen to her scream anymore. Do you hear me? I got a form to read, we’re signing a contract-“

“I don’t give a rat’s ass to what you have to do. You said you wanted her for the weekend. She hasn’t even been at your place twenty four hours.”

“Elain,” Graysen steels his voice. “I can’t. I _can’t.”_

Winnie wails louder, knocking stuff and Elain hears a thud before Winnie cries. From her tone, she’s hurt herself. Tears well up in Elain’s eyes as her heart weeps for her baby. 

“Shit,” curses Graysen. “Come here, Winnie. Just- stop you’ll hurt yourself more- stop- _STOP THRASHING!”_

Elain feels herself go faint as he raises his voice at _her_ girl. A single furious tear runs down her face, especially when Winnie stops crying, her loud hiccups filling the silence that descends on the line. 

“Pack her things,” says Elain in a thick voice that shakes with anger. “Bring her to the bakery. _Now._ ” 

“Elain, shit, I didn-“

She hangs up and stuff her phone in her pocket with trembling hands. Lena, the girl who usually works the counter alone, gives her a questioning look from where she’s fixing the display of cakes and arranging the pastries. Elain shakes her head, blinking, and forces on a smile when a customer comes up to the cashier, whose eyes widen in horror at the forced smile stitched on her face like those in scary movies

Half an hour later she sees Graysen’s car through the panelled windows of the shop trying to make its way through the busy street. Saturday 6PM is a popular time to be out enjoying Windhaven in every weather, and Golden Crumbs is downtown, right in the hub.

“Lena, I just need to step out for a second,” says Elain, taking off her apron. Lena nods, taking her place at the cashier just as Elain rounds the counter and steps out into the cold weather, making her way to Graysen’s white Jaguar which he parks at the side of the road when Elain gestures that he does.

She reaches them just as Graysen sets Winnie on her feet. Winnie who, bundled in her pink coat and scarf and beanie, her backpack on her back, bolts right towards her mother as if she hasn’t seen her for a decade. Elain picks her up the minute her arms close around her, holding her tightly as she puts her small arms around her neck and presses her face into her shoulder, sniffling.

“Elain-“

She turns on her heel, cutting him off. Ignoring his calls and his shouted “Really?” she jogs up the damp street in the sharp cold wind, her boots splashing in the puddles, ducking her head in the drizzle and tucking Winnie into her chest. Once she steps into the bakery, she’s immediately swathed in its thick blanketing warmth.

Putting Winnie down reveals her red eyes and her damp cheeks. Elain uses her sleeve to wipe them away, kneeling in front of her, taking her bag, unbuttoning her coat and kissing her cheeks as she does.

“Are you okay, baby?” she says softly, smoothing a knuckle over her cheek, relieving her of her coat and taking her hat. Winnie tugs on her scarf, dryly sniffing in a way that makes her little chest shudder. She gently takes that too, folding them over one arm, smoothing her hair.

“Come on,” she takes her hand and leads her behind the counter, where Lena’s eyes land on her and her eyes brighten.

“I didn’t know you had a baby!” she claps her hands together, making heart eyes at Winnie. “Aw, she’s adorable! Hi, there, kiddo,” she abandons the cashier to crouch down before the girl, beaming. “What’s your name, princess?”

“Winnie,” she responds timidly, her thumb in her mouth.

“Oh, Winnie! You know who else is called Winnie? See, let me show you my phone...”

Lena volunteers to entertain and look after Winnie behind the counter, finding her a stool to sit on while she colours in her colouring book from her bag, Lena making drinks next to her.

Elain eyes the time on her wrist, waiting for her shift to be over. She doesn’t know how she’s going to explain this to Azriel- she told him Winnie was going to be at her father’s, and Elain wants to talk to him, but she doesn’t know how he’ll feel about Winnie’s presence.

Sighing, when her shift is over she hesitantly dials his number and calls him as she and Winnie sit in her car, a chocolate cake packaged and secured on the shotgun seat. He picks up after two rings.

“I’m stuck in traffic at the moment,” he responds. “Chinatown’s really popular.”

“Azriel I’m so sorry,” she breathes faintly, brushing her hair from her face as her windshield wipers wipe away the rain falling onto the glass. “Winnie was upset at her dad’s place. I couldn’t leave her there.”

“Why are you apologising?”

She blinks down at her lap. “I said she’d be at her dad’s. It’s not just going to be us for dinner.”

He actually chuckles. He seems in a good mood. “Miss Bunny can ruin my life and I’d thank her for it. I don’t mind; I like her.”

A smile of disbelief twitches her lips. “Are you sure? You don’t mind?”

“Elain, introducing people to food they’ve never tried before is a hobby of mine. The more the merrier.”

She laughs suddenly, smiling widely. “Okay,” she nods several times. “Okay. I just left the bakery.”

“Set the table then- oh, don’t tell me you forgot the thing you’re luring me with in the first place.”

She giggles, pressing her hand to her forehead, beaming. “Never.” 

“See you in a bit then.”

She beams at Winnie. “How do you feel about seeing Azeel again?”

The girl visibly perks up, an identical smile stretching her lips.

Elain’s never driven home so quick.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They slipped briefly into an intimacy from which they never recovered."

“Which one, baby? This or this?”

Winnie mindlessly mumbles her ABC’s song while playing with a headless donkey and a small plastic spatula; sitting obediently at the foot of Elain’s bed, kicking her legs out and bending them repeatedly while her mother rummages in her closet. Elain holds up two shirts for the toddler, one a casual blue bow-collar blouse and the other a well-loved dusty pink sweater that would have to be paired with a white collared shirt beneath. She stands in her tank top and jeans, skin prickling with goosebumps thanks to the chill of the house that she hasn’t yet managed to fix the heater off.

“Boo,” Winnie points the chewed up, crooked spatula at the blouse, having recently learned the word for the colour. Elain looks at it and shrugs, hanging the pink sweater abruptly and closing the closet door with her foot, multitasking walking to her vanity with putting the shirt on.

She runs a critical eye over herself in the mirror, clicking her tongue disapprovingly at her hair. It’s been a while that she has styled it in anything other than a ponytail and bun for the bakery and letting it down during school. Her fingers catch with the tangles - taking time to brush them out will cost her time she doesn’t have. If Azriel’s true to his word, then he’s probably five minutes away. She grabs her hair clip and gathers it in a style she half remembers how to do. After a moment of hesitation, she sprays one of her perfumes quickly.

“Come on, come on,” Elain cheerfully jogs down the stairs, followed by her toddler picking up on the different mood she is in today. Elain’s routine after work rarely changes any day and she doesn’t feel remotely alive after her shifts, something Winnie’s well used to, so the skip in the woman’s step is hard to not notice. 

Just as Elain has stepped into the kitchen and pulled the cutlery out, she hears Azriel’s car pull up in the driveway. Winnie does too, her face peeking up over the top of the table, eyes wide and alight before Elain relieves her of the bread she had given her to clear off and she bolts out of the kitchen. Elain hears her impatiently waiting at the door, fidgeting and shuffling before she remembers that Azriel probably needs help.

The moment she opens the door, Winnie hurries out like a puppy set free and stands on the front porch barefoot, squealing and waving her arms in the air at the sight of the familiar black BMW. Chanting Azriel’s name, her voice is swallowed by the loud storm breaking noisily down from the black sky, rain a heavy patter, the whistling of the wind interrupted briefly by a harsh faraway thunder. 

Elain in her slippers stands next to her child just at the end of the porch, holding her hand before her eyes as the wind blows rain into their faces. She squints through the dark against the raindrops, watching his silhouette shut the car door and lock it, jogging over with a bowed head. Elain gestures him inside quickly with a wide smile as his pair of long legs swallow up the distance in a few steps.

“Azeel!” Winnie greets the minute he is under the shelter of the porch, throwing herself at his legs before he can say a word.

“Hey, bunny!” His voice is barely heard over the rain as he looks down at the girl embracing his limbs.

Elain taps Winnie’s shoulder, “Come on, inside. Let me help you with those, Azriel.”

She can’t see him well in the dark, barely illuminated by the glowing light from her house behind her back. Still, she can see the plastic bags carried in his one hand that she takes a few of, stepping aside to let him inside, and closing the door behind them as she follows.

It smells strange but lovely, the new unfamiliar scent rising into her nose, the heat of the plastic bags seeping into her hands. She follows Azriel into the kitchen, setting the bags on the table and meeting his gaze as he takes off his coat.

His face breaks into the widest smile she’s seen yet on his face; wide, shining and fresh. He looks less like the man she met recently and more like the man from several years ago. She tries to pinpoint what about him is different tonight; he looks refreshed and that’s when she notices his jaw is clean-shaven, revealing a strong sharp jawline and full lips.

She smiles back, wondering if she looks presentable herself as she takes his coat from him. He looks dashing; he’s abandoned the hoodie, replacing it with a navy blue shirt -at least she thinks it’s a shirt- whose design is peculiar, especially in his left shoulder region. Normal on the right side of his body and on the lower left part, the back of the shirt seems to form into a wide cut of fabric at his shoulder that joins the lower part of the shirt. It wraps around his cast and arm just as it reaches his midrib. She tries to follow it but her eyes go dizzy quickly.

“Hi,” she blinks, meeting his eyes again. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he answers, briefly looking away down at Winnie tugging on his dark jeans. “Hey, bunny.”

Winnie just cheekily smiles up at him as she hugs his legs and earns a tap on her nose that makes her eyes flutter shut briefly. Azriel looks back at Elain.

“You look lovely. The shirt’s beautiful.”

It takes her a moment to realize he’s complimented her outfit. When was the last time a man had done that, not from her family?

Her fingers run along the ridges of her nails out of habit, still smiling. “You look... dashing. The shirt is- it is a shirt right?”

He nods. “Maji made it. She made me things that would fit the cast. They just arrived today with instructions on how to wear them.”

“Who?”

“Oh, uh, Rhys’s mother. Farida Blackwood.”

She perks up. “I love all her work! Your shirt-“

A loud growling rumble comes from her stomach, a sound very obviously heard if the knowing twitch of his lips is an indicator. She sputters a laugh, shaking her head. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Good thing for the takeout, then. Sorry to make you wait.”

He furrowed a brow at the plates and cutlery she set out and informed her they’d have none of that as they unpacked the food he brought, soon revealing the copious amount that had Elain reeling.

“Is there a dish you  _ hadn’t _ picked up?” she asked as she opened boxes, watching him do it out of the corner of her eye.

“Of course. There are things you just don’t order from American Chinese restaurants,” he brushed it off.

“What’s that?” she asked, spotting a Chick-fil-a bag.

“Oh, I was worried Winnie wouldn’t eat any of this. Chick-fil-a was the open one on my way.”

They sit in their usual seats; Elain across from him, Winnie at the head of the table at their right and left hands. Azriel shows her how to unfold the takeout boxes into a plate, furrowing her brow when they fold out easily and he hands her disposable wooden chopsticks. Elain finds herself impressed beyond herself as she watches him take them out and break them apart in one fluid practised motion of one hand.

It is soon revealed that he’s a fun person to converse with; Elain knew that beforehand- she wouldn’t have invited him over otherwise. 

Still, there’s a different mood in the kitchen illuminated by an old lightbulb over their heads, snuggled from the raging storm outside and no urge to be anywhere but here that makes their conversation different. She tries various Chinese dishes, is told about them and finds that she likes the wontons filled with diced shrimp and the chow mein especially. She doesn’t know how to eat with the chopsticks even after he attempted to give her a quick tutorial so she replaced it with a fork.

Winnie gets her fair share of attention; handfed fried noodles by the man across Elain and given carefully selected appetizers. The two-year-old doesn’t reveal much as she chews the beef in black bean sauce, and nods her head mysteriously when he asks if she likes it. Yet when offered the chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-a, she eagerly accepts.

Azriel asks after her health, noting the tiredness in her eyes and face and the red tint of her nose. Elain thinks she’s never felt healthier.

Then he asks about her job and she feels her thoughts catch up with her, the reasons she asked to see him. She toys with her fork, moving around the noodles and twirling her fork into them, thinking, wondering if it’s worth it.

“How’s work? Did Freddie not show up again?”

At her silence, he stills, focusing his gaze on her. She feels it boring into her, assessing and speculating. She tries to keep Freddie’s face out of her head, but it’s all she has thought of since Nuala left the bakery after speaking to Ianthe. Elain tried to tell herself to mind her business and keep her nose clean, and she had succeeded for the most part.

But then Freddie’s mother walked into the bakery while they were closing up and she had shouted at Ianthe, sobbing with tears running down her face, accusing the woman of her son’s demise and laying the blame thick on the stunned blonde woman.

Her crying had touched Elain’s heart as she tried to comfort her, prompting her to imagine for the first time herself in the woman’s place. The thought of Winnie dying kept her up last night, her episode of imagining horrible scenarios putting the little girl into Freddie’s situation.

Would Elain’s absence push Winnie into the arms of something sinister? Would she be able to support her child and any dreams she might concoct?

The thought of Winnie being far away from help, swept with the wrong crowd and getting herself killed  _ hurt _ . Hurt Elain and squeezed her heart unmercifully. She needed to tell someone, loosen that knot in her chest.

Nuala seemed like she wouldn’t be going anywhere with Freddie’s death –murder, if they were going to be realistic- and Cerridwen confirmed it to Elain. She couldn’t tell her sister anything if they wanted to live their lives, so Elain thought- maybe, maybe Azriel might help because he has nothing to do with the case.

Freddie dealt the cocaine that was under his nose, his greed took over but he was still only a boy without help or guidance, his mother said as much, trying to make a better life for himself.

“Ah, well,” she clears her throat, adjusting on her chair. “That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

His hazel eyes sharpen, reminding her of a hawk’s gaze, as he waits for more.

She clenches her teeth, setting down her fork. “Freddie was found dead,” she says quietly, having no clue why she lowers her voice. It’s not as if Winnie can understand them. “Nuala came around yesterday and said she wanted to ask us questions.”

“Mm.” 

Elain rubs her hands hesitantly. “Apparently he came into a lot of money before he died. And that they found cocaine in his room.”

“It’s normal for a boy his age. A lot of them deal drugs.”

“It bothers me,” Elain desperately searches for the words to say, the suitable ones. She hates dancing around subjects.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, sincerely, yet somehow the earnest tone he speaks with doesn’t match his expression. It looks odd on him, as if he’s pulling it on simply because of protocol that has been instilled in him and that he had learned to do it from someone else. “But it’s not uncommon, unfortunately.”

“Nuala said it looks like a suicide,” she says quietly, discreetly meeting his eyes. The man across her is so at odds with the fun man her and her daughter know. He looks more like the detective most people know him by- this image of him is the mental one that followed his name in Elain’s head whenever it was uttered within her earshot.

He carefully sets his chopsticks down, taking a sip of the Coke Elain poured out. “Do you have reasons to believe otherwise?” he finally answers, choosing his words carefully.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Elain blurts. “He upset someone, ran with the wrong crowd and he got himself killed.”

“It’s not my investigation,” replies Azriel cautiously. “So I’m not at liberty to release any information. But I can listen to you. Is there something on your chest?”

“He can’t have killed himself,” she leans forward in her seat, encouraged now that there’s someone to listen. “His life was beginning to look up, why kill himself?”

He tilts his head to the side, a calculating gleam regarding her steadily. She presses on.

“And Nuala was wondering where he’d get that kind of cocaine from. It’s obvious that it’s foul play. He probably upset someone and-“

Then it hits her.

Had he upset  _ Ianthe _ ? Ianthe who- but no, she wouldn’t kill someone, would she? Elain just thinks that when she’s being particularly prissy, but she wouldn’t actually go that far. It must have been a coincidence that Freddie stole from her and then died.

Or had he not stolen at all?

“Elain?”

She grits her jaw. To hell with it. “In the bakery the other day, I think I came across some.”

She can pinpoint the exact moment his mind goes from being a recipient to working furiously, gears and cogs sharply turning. His shoulders back up as he straightens his back and his eyes gleam cuttingly, telling her she might just be onto something.

“Across what?”

“Cocaine,” she replies softly as Winnie nibbles on her chicken sandwich. “It was the day you started babysitting for me. I was late to the bakery so I was making up for it by carrying out Freddie’s job, moving heavyweight and things like that. In the storage room, one of the bags in the back tipped over, but they were already there before I got there, and just as I was going to clean it up Freddie showed up and offered to do it himself. I thought it was just powdered sugar and that it smelled a bit different. But I know now. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.”

Azriel leans back in his chair, eyes sliding away from her a few inches over her head. His lips twitch, pressing together. “Where’s the bakery?”

She tells him, a considering, careful look worn on his face. Elain watches him raptly for any detail or slip of the appearance, anything to say she’s right in her suspicions.

“Beron’s territory, huh?”

“Beron?”

“Head of one of the seven gangs that mainly run the state,” he replies offhandedly without glancing at her. “He’s got the docks and wharves there too. We know that he knows that we do, so he wouldn’t be able to…”

He trails off, realization diffusing across his face as his lips spread slightly. “Tell me about the bakery. Ianthe. You mentioned her sales have been down?”

She nods. “We even think some of us are going to be let go. Ianthe would do anything to keep it successful.”

“It’s not uncommon,” he murmurs in a deep low tone, almost to himself. “It’s a way for quick cash. When did it get there, the cocaine?”

“That day, I think,” she answers, recalling Cerridwen wanting to tell her something. “I’m pretty sure.”

A smile quirks his lips up. “Elain would you mind me making a phone call?”

Confused, she shakes her head. He flashes her a smile as he fishes his phone from his pocket and dials a number.

“My boss,” he tells her right before his call is picked up. “Helion,” he smiles, like the cat that got the cream. “I’m about to make you extremely popular with Homeland Security. I know where that shipment of pure cocaine they were planning on seizing disappeared…… Yeah, I’ll wait.”

“What’s going on?” she asks when he meets her gaze, still holding the device to his ear.

“Homeland was supposed to make a drug bust a week ago on a shipment of cocaine once it landed onshore. They had it planned for ages,” he explains. “But it disappeared before they could get it. Someone leaked their operation and talked. They’re fuming about it.”

“You think that’s the same?”

“I know it’s the same,” he answers with a confident smile. “Because it’s Beron’s shipment. He’d need to hide it somewhere no one would look. Pure cocaine in a bakery, who would think? Your manager probably thought it was a gift from the heavens since she’s pressed for cash.”

A chill spreads along her back. “Would that close the bakery if you prove it?”

“Oh  _ I _ have nothing to do with this,” he shakes his head. “It’s Homeland’s case. They might ask you questions and make a statement about the cocaine.”

“Hold on- they- the bakery would shut down?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Most likely, especially if others were onto it. Are you- yeah, Helion-“

She doesn’t know what pushes her to interrupt him but it might be the flashing image of Cerridwen in her head who’d lose her job and all she worked for those long years.

“Oh, you know what? I don’t think I’m sure,” she quickly interrupts him, slightly stumbling over her words, his sharpened gaze snapping onto her. “I-I was pretty tired that day. I think I might be jumping to conclusions. I’m a bit upset at Freddie’s death so I can’t say for sure.”

Azriel holds his phone to his ear, piercing gaze seeming to look past her eyes, into her soul and past her obvious lie.

She nervously plays with her fingers under the table. “It’s like you said- it’s not uncommon for boys his age. I think I’m just upset. I’m sure I saw nothing that day.”

His pinky stretches out, rubbing the corner of his lips as he regards her quietly, a muffled voice coming from his phone. She stares back, heart thundering in her chest, praying and hoping she hadn’t messed up by telling him-  _ please, please, please _ , she thinks desperately.  _ Please, please, pl- _

“Sorry, false alarm,” he replies smoothly into his phone as if he didn’t pause at all. “I’m mixing up cases together. I need some proper sleep, this broken shoulder is getting to my head. Sorry, boss, you can’t be popular with Homeland yet.”

He looks away as his boss replies.

“Uhu, yeah, I’m sorry. In my defence, I haven’t bothered you in a while. You’ll get used to the peace otherwise. Sorry for interrupting your important night of Sudoku, old man. Good night.”

“Are you in trouble?” she whispers in a hushed tone as he puts his phone away. “I’m sorry if I got-“

“Just the usual,” he answers with a small smile. “We all bother him; it’s part of our job. He threatens that he’ll put me on unsolvable cases and paperwork but it’s just empty threats. You see, my boss Sergeant Day, is nothing without his daily threats. The other time he…”

And like that, he goes on to tell her about his sergeant and his work, sharing stories about his coworkers as if he hadn’t just gone back on offering up crucial information to his superiors as he is supposed to. She’s pretty sure that there is a backlash for withholding information.

Elain doesn’t know if she’s more grateful or relieved.

She briefly goes to the bathroom when they’re done eating, and on her way back she pauses right before entering the kitchen. The reason for doing so is the conversation taking place.

“Don’t look at me with those sweet eyes, you can’t have more juice. Mama said no.”

Winnie blabbers back, incoherent words mushed up together.

“Yeah I know, I really do sympathize with your cause but you can’t have more. That’s enough for the night. It’s not good for you because of… metabolism, or something.”

A smile touches Elain’s lips as she focuses on the tone he is speaking with. He is utilizing his vocal levels and varying his tone to sound like he’s making a sound argument to the girl who takes a similar approach to request the juice.

“I said don’t look at me like that, I’m finding out that I’m too soft when it comes to you,” he replies with the same tone of a researcher presenting their findings. “Oh yeah Miss. Definitely. I’m trying to think a way to convince you so I’m going to be speaking like this till you’re fed up with me. Okay?”

“Winnie joose.”

“Yeah I agree, see climate change is a serious issue we aren’t taking nearly seriously enough. Carbon emissions and other fancy words I keep reading but never remember. It’s really frightening, Leonardo Di Caprio likes to keep putting me in crisis mode every once in a while. What do you think?”

“Joose. Abababada Winnie owange.”

“Hmm... yes you make a valid point, but if you’ll look at this pie chart of mine -yes I know it’s just a string of noodles but that’s not the point. You have to see beyond appearances which can be deceiving, you know. See, if you’ll look here you will notice all the signs from the environment presenting to us very clearly why you  _ can’t  _ have more juice. Mainly because a mad mother is a formidable force of nature, I’m sure you will find yourself agreeing.”

“Joose.”

“I’m pretty sure the animals aren’t very thrilled on giving you more of it either, you see-“

“Abibals?”

“Oh yeah the animal kingdom sent in a post-it-note, it arrived just now saying- oh what does it say?  _ Please oh please do not give Winnie more juice. Signed, the whole entire animal kingdom including all humans on earth. Mainly the neighbours who won’t be able to sleep from the inevitable sugar rush.  _ See? Yes, you can look at the restaurant receipt, don’t damage the evidence- oh you gone and done it.”

“Abibals?”

“Yeah, lions and foxes and… worms.. Are worms animals? I’m not sure, I’ll look it up for you. But yes, lions, foxes, hippopotamuses-“

“Papatamus?”

“Yeah. Hey, why don’t we get you to say hippopotamus? Can you say it?”

“Patatofus.”

“Close enough. Hippo.”

“Eepo.”

“Pota.”

“Dato.”

“Mus.”

“Fus!”

“Good, now all together: hippopatamoseses- ah shi- _ skittles _ hold on, hippopatamas- no, hippopatata- no, argh, Hippo. Pata. Mus. Hippopotamus.”

“Faffasus.”

“Why don’t we just call them hippos, instead? Eh? I’m sure it isn’t offensive. Hippos.”

“Eeppo.”

“Good enough! Good job.”

“Joose?”

“Ah, I hoped you’d forgotten that. Well Miss Winnie, it seems I have to continue on presenting why giving you more of the nectar that shall remain unnamed so you will forget it is a bad idea. If you would but allow me to direct your attention to this lone dumpling here- oh did you like the food?”

“What?”

“The food. Did you like it? Good? Ew??”

“Ew..”

“That bad, huh?”

Elain walks in, resisting the smile on her face from widening tenfold its size. “Hippopotamuses?” she softly intones, standing across him behind her chair.

Azriel’s eyes look up at her, lips stretching into a sheepish lazy smile. “Ah well… Tongue twister.”

“I was the best at those in school,” she grips the back of the chair she sat on, leaning onto it. “I’m still a champion with the kids. Tongue Twister Time is our highlight of the lesson.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Ever heard the one about Fuzzy Wuzzy?”

Winnie immediately cackles in her highchair at the funny word, making Elain grin. Azriel’s eyes gleam. “No, I haven’t, what’s-“

“Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear,” Elain speaks clearly as her kid laughs again at the words. “Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?” 

Azriel grins while Winnie laughs more. His shoulders shudder as he chuckles briefly. “Do it again… Quicker,” he requests.

“What, the thing about Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, but Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair so Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?”

Azriel snorts as Winnie screeches, tearing up at the words. It’s always been Winnie’s favourite to hear. It seems that they’ve discovered a similarity between her and the detective now who is laughing quietly into his hand, shaking his head.

“One more time please,” he whispers, shoulders quivering.

“What? Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?” Elain rattles off quickly.

Azriel guffaws, leaning over and pressing his hand to his forehead while Winnie giggles her head off. Elain watches them both, mainly him, with a satisfied smile tugging her lips as he snorts and closes his eyes.

“It’s so stupid,” he says quietly, trying to stop laughing.

“You say one,” she fishes her phone out of her pocket and pulls up a picture she saved from online. “Try this.”

He sniffs as he accepts the phone and reads the tongue twister. Elain watches his lips smile in that suppressed way that somehow is more charming. She likes how his cheeks round and the dimples become more pronounced.

“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” Azriel reads off slowly, smiling with every word.

“Ah ah, that’s cheating. Faster. Read the rest of it. Try again.”

“I won’t lie, this first line sounds better than some rap songs,” he says, sniffing and clearing his throat. “All right, all right, how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood-“

“Faster-“

“He would chuck, he would, as much as he could, and chuck as much wood- ah fuck it! Sorry, uh, as a woodchuck would if a woodchuck- chuc-  _ damn it _ , could chuck wood.”

He reads the lines a few times before he tries again. “Ok, ok, I think I got it: how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.. he would chuck, he would, as much as he could, and chuck as much wood as a woodchuck would if a woodchuck could chuck wood.”

He stumbles over the words and gets clearly agitated with it, desiring to say it perfectly. Winnie doesn’t seem to find his performance as impressive as her mother’s so she asks her to do it again.

So Elain does, and the pair of them laugh at it.

“See the rest,” she tells him, picking up the disposables. “Do Peter Piper.”

“Peter Piper pick..ed a …peck- oh  _ hell no _ , I’m not. I can’t even  _ read _ it!”

Elain shrugs with a hum.

“Don’t tell me you can,” he grins.

Tossing away the trash and picking up a sponge, she looks him square in the eyes and says it.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers

A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked

If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers

Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?”

Winnie loses her mind as she giggles, leaning back in her chair and shutting her eyes. Azriel stares at Elain awestruck.

“That’s awesome, I love it.”

She sheepishly shrugs, drying her hands on a towel and fighting off a smile.

* * *

They give him a proper tour of the house after dinner; the minute Elain suggests it, Winnie takes him by the hand and leads him out of the kitchen, blabbering away instructively while Elain shows him around.

Her house is a three-floor building consisting of an attic and a basement, three bedrooms (one for Elain, for Winnie and a guestroom), two bathrooms, a dining room and the kitchen, a study and an empty room that has served as a room for junk and miscellaneous things Elain never has the chance to clear up.

Her backyard is a barren dead wasteland of grass going wild and empty flowerbeds she once planned on making bloom impressively. Elain’s house is a source of stress for her, mainly due to the fact that it is a demanding responsibility that requires huge amounts of constant maintenance. 

She has the rooms they don’t use locked save for her and Winnie’s rooms and the bathroom. She doesn’t go into her study anymore as much as she used to; now her work has spread to the dining room and her bedroom, as opposed to the study.

“And last but not least, this is my study. Office. Whatever you’d call it. My room,” her hand automatically turns on the light out of muscle memory when she walks in, taking pride in the shock that spreads along his face: raised eyebrows, rounded eyes.

The room carries the theme of an antique library, with the thick carpet muffling sound and it being secluded besides Winnie’s room, but the air is dusty and stuffed; a heavy pair of curtains draped shut prevent sunlight and fresh air from stealing inside. Boxes take over a lot of the floor, especially at the back and at the corners where the main attraction of the room shines after a moment of adjustment. 

Floor to ceiling shelves. Shelves upon shelves of firm solid dark wood taking over three walls but for the one with the windows. Azriel blinks at them as he turns a full circle, taking in the furniture and the shelves. Elain’s pride and joy is set by the windows, angled so that the back is to the edge of the bookcase ending at the window- her antique leather reading chair. An expandable antique round table is set in the middle of the room, a box of books set atop it.

“Sorry for the mess,” she chuckles, taking the box off. “I haven’t been here in a while. But this is it. My favourite room in the house.”

Azriel stares quietly. She catches his eyes resting on the unpacked books at the foot of the bookshelves, only one section unpacked and the books placed there.

“It’s…” he blinks, looking around him. Elain bought once a set of lamps and placed them on some of the shelves, along with bits of décor and antique objects that aren’t in their place. There’s a whole box of them still unpacked somewhere amongst the throes of cardboard boxes.

“You do love your antique, huh?”

Elain beams. “Not necessarily. But for this room, I knew exactly what I wanted it to be the minute I saw it. It’s a crime to make it other than this way. Some of these I found in thrift stores, you won’t believe the price of. Others I saved up for. It’s just..” she dreamily sighs before she rattles off. “I’ve always wanted a room like this since I was a little girl. We used to have a room like this back home, ages ago. My mother wouldn’t let my sisters in because they used to ruin some expensive stuff; Feyre spilt paint over the carpet and broke two crystal glass canisters. Nesta used to drop some of the really old books. But Mom would only let me in, sit in the other armchair as hers and look at some maps and books. My favourite was the botany ones. I still have them.”

Azriel looks at the mostly empty bookshelves. “You haven’t finished it though.”

“Oh no,” she keeps a hold of Winnie who seems to take a shine to the old floor-standing globe. “I haven’t had the time. When we moved in we spent all our money on the house and then I had those bookshelves made and then we had Winnie and it’s... it took time.”

“I’m honestly amazed,” he says, glancing at the round table. “Honestly. I have no words. It’s just lovely. You should finish it.”

She smiles tenderly at him.

* * *

Azriel was amazed, not just by the house and the study, but with the woman herself. There was an intimacy they slipped in while she showed him her house, something he personally enjoyed but walking into her favourite room made it feel like walking into a different world.

She tells him how she thought originally to sell the house but backtracked. She keeps referring to an “us” that she doesn’t clarify on, driving him to try and figure out what drove her husband out of the picture. He took a look at some of the pictures from Rhys and Feyre’s wedding when she sent him their picture, and indeed, he remembered right; she had been with her husband.

And she still lets him see his kid, so they must have parted on good enough terms. Perhaps they fell out of love. He’s heard about it happening.

They stay in the study, seated at the round table after clearing the things on it and wiping the dust away. Winnie is different tonight; she’s quiet, more moody and clingy. To his surprise, she forsakes going to her mother and climbs into his lap, curling there in his arm and not moving until he realizes she’s fallen asleep.

Elain takes her from him to put him to bed, encouraging him to look around while she’s gone.

He does, mainly out of curiosity to look at the books and objects she chose to unpack. He keeps his hand in his pocket as he tilts his head and reads the titles, mouthing the unfamiliar and faded words.  _ The Art of Botanical Illustration, Hortus Mirabilis: Journey to Padua and the World's Oldest Botanical Garden, Philosophia Botanica  _ and _ Culpeper's Complete Herbal. Odyssey, the Iliad, Old Greek Nature Stories, Mythos, Mask of Dionysus, Greek Mythology. _

When his eyes skim over enough book spines, old collector’s edition and well-loved modern copies, he turns his gaze from them to other shelves. A mirror hanging on the wall above a shelf, coming as a break between the bookcases, earns his attention.

Elain really has thought this room through and through. Though she has yet to finish it, it’s clear from the foundations she’s precisely had made come from a detailed plan. He’s confident she even has a plan for the place somewhere with precise measurements.

There’s a dusty gramophone on the first shelf below the mirror and a large collection of vinyl records on the shelves beneath. He warily examines the device from afar, mindful not to bump into the clearly expensive device and break it, his routine at work keeping him in the habit of studying things without touching them or ruining them.

He crouches down and chooses a record at random to have a glimpse at the collection. His hand comes back with Adele,  _ Greatest Hits _ . His eyebrows rise high approvingly before he slides it back in place and pulls another one from a different shelf.  _ Max Richter: Recomposed _ .  _ The Chopin Project _ . Tchaikovsky’s  _ Symphony No.4 _ .  _ Shubert _ .

He stands up straight, brushing the dust off his hand on his jeans and glances at his reflection in the mirror.

“It’s real,” Elain’s voice pipes up from the doorway. He turns on his heel quickly.

See, there’s this thing about her that baffles him: he can’t read her.

Azriel can look at anything and be able to string a line of deductions. It’s one of the skills required of him as a detective, and one he had developed early on as a child. He looks at something- the study, for example, and he can read the room. He can tell that some of the shelves were hung by someone unprofessional because they’re crooked, and that whoever hung them must have been six foot tall because they hadn’t used a ladder. 

Looking at the books on display, chosen out of all the rest in the boxes, he can conclude that their owner is a fan of Greek mythology and botany, but that they didn’t enjoy the Odyssey as much as the Illiad because the latter is more worn down, annotated with tabs and the spine bearing singular cracks in one place that comes from being open too long so they must have slept a few times on it, and the fact that there are three different editions of it.

He looks at the records and can imagine a person of selective musical taste liking this. He looks at the study, the theme, the armchair by the windows accented with the deep red curtains behind it, and thinks that whoever is responsible for this room seeks escapism daily from a stressful life, but that recently they’ve suffered a special kind of stress thanks to the room not being used in a long while. The intimacy of the room suggests that whoever is causing or has caused the stress is someone of trust, and close to the heart enough to make this room feel bitter and unwelcome, robbed of its escaping safe haven touch.

But then he looks at Elain, and everything flies out of his head.

He presumed that morning with Felix that it was just his sleep deprivation driving him insane. But it persisted, all throughout the week and only regarding Elain.

It makes him uncomfortable, solely because he doesn’t understand- becoming too much of the boy he had been; uncertain, enchanted with everything around him, dumbfounded.

She smiles at him as she places the chocolate cake she brought with her on the table and makes her way over to him- and then again; he has that feeling.

He rakes his gaze over her attire, but instead of picking up threads of continuous thoughts, all he has are abrupt jumbled notions; something along the lines of the colour she chose being mesmerizing, or that a lot of her thick golden-brown hair has escaped her hair clip styling and that her jeans complement the shirt well.

“It’s real?” he blurts, blinking.

“The gramophone,” she adds, standing next to him.

He looks back at it as Elain picks out a vinyl from the collection. He glances at it; Elvis.

“You have a specific taste in music,” he finds himself saying as Elain pulls out the vinyl.

“Oh these aren’t mine,” she shakes her head, shaking the strands further from the loose styling. He reaches out and unclips the hair, handing it to her. “My ex loves collecting. He had a modern record and speakers but he took them with him.” 

He studies her facial expression as she says the words and finds himself failing spectacularly. Her wide doe-eyes are bright, hiding her soul behind the iris, long lashes framing them and darkened skin beneath them. Her cute nose is red, her voice just a little different than usual.

“Didn’t take the vinyl with him?”

She plays Elvis, silent as she picks her words which she says lightly: “He left these. I liked most of those from his collection.”

Azriel nods, lips turning up at one end as  _ Love Me Tender  _ starts playing.

Elain opens and closes her hair clip as she stares at the gramophone, something on her mind clearly. Azriel assumes it’s because of the associated memories undoubtedly tied to the lyrics.

_ Love me tender, love me sweet, _ _   
_ _ Never let me go. _ _   
_ _ You have made my life complete, _ _   
_ _ And I love you so. _

He doesn’t know why, but the music plays and he can construct a mental image of her vividly: sitting at night on the deck of a cruise ship on the Seine, shopping bags at her feet from a spree in Champs-Elysées, leaning against the railings and looking out. The warm summer breeze toying with her hair lets it down, sunglasses on her head pushing the strands from her face, and for all the finery of the world around her, a poignant sadness in her eyes as she remembers the man she loved and broke her heart.

Elain would like Paris. 

She turns to him, opening her mouth. His hand moves of its own accord, offering itself to her, before she can speak as the music gets to him. Elvis has a way of making him want to sway with the tune of the music,  _ Love Me Tender _ being no different. An amused expression crossing her face, she takes his one hand and lets him tug her with him as he backs a few steps to a space clear of obstacles.

_ Love me tender, love me long, _ _   
_ _ Take me to your heart. _ _   
_ _ For it's there that I belong, _ _   
_ _ And we'll never part. _

Elain chuckles, taking his hand in her own and placing her arm over his waist, switching the typical dancing positions. Being close to him, their height difference is highlighted; the top of her head reaches just to his nose, which she sets against his good shoulder as he rests his chin on hers. 

“This song, apparently depending on your mood, either is the sweetest thing in the world or is the saddest. There’s no in-between.”

Elain hums, the sound vibrating in his body. She raises her head, leaning back slightly to look him in the eyes and with all the seriousness in the world tells him; “When I was little I thought tender was a girl,” she shares softly as they sway back and forth.

He laughs.

“I was confused for years,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “And chicken tenders. I decided in the end that he was singing for chicken.”

“I’d sing for chicken,” he admits.

“Really?”

“Definitely. If it’s made well? I’d serenade it for days. Especially Maji’s chicken curry. That shi- stuff is the best.”

He feels her smile against his shirt.

“So which one are you now?” he asks as the song comes to a close.

“Which what?”

“Sad or overwhelmed with the sweetness?”

“Neither,” she says slowly. “I’m just... I’m just thinking the words in my head. Love me tender. I’m not feeling anything. You?”

“Same. But I’m thinking of chicken curry.”

Elain laughs, stepping back, her eyes gleaming with a bright smile on her lips. “We just had Chinese!”

“I’m sorry, but I have an insatiable hunger. It’s- I’m a foodie. I love food.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “But you don’t cook like one.” 

He reels back, pretending to take offence, tugging her hand as he does. “I’m sorry!” he splutters over Elvis. “I only know how to cook pasta.”

“You make that well,” she admits. “But just… the soup you made isn’t a chef’s product. Gordon Ramsay would roast you on a spit.”

“You know Cassian. He’s set the bar high- he’s practically a chef. Gordon roasts professional chefs, he’d put me in Hell.”

Elain’s smile reaches her eyes. “ _ What are you?! _ ”

“An idiot sandwich.”

She chuckles, stepping back close to him and placing her arm around him again as they sway to the beginning of  _ Can’t Help Falling in Love _ .

Apparently he cannot remain silent around this woman for long, the urge to break the silence taking over him and driving him to speak over Elvis. “Do you know that it’s based on  _ Plaisir d'amour _ ?”

“No, what’s that?”

“It’s a popular French love song in 1784 by Jean-Paul-Égide Martini. It was written for a woman originally as "Can't Help Falling in Love with Him".”

“I didn’t know,” she says quietly.

_ “Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment. _ _   
_ _ chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie,”  _ he utters softly. Elain looks up sharply at that.

“You speak French?”

His eyes flicker away from her surprised expression, nodding once.

“Oh, are your parents French?” she inquires then her brow furrows. “No wait, sorry, Rhys’s parents are British-“

“My Dad’s wife is. My half-brother spoke French with me.”

“You know your parents?” she asks softly. “I thought…”

“Maji adopted me when I was eight,” he answers, his skin prickling uncomfortably. He clears his throat, avoiding her gaze.

Elain doesn’t comment, but her arm around his waist tightens and she rests her head against his chest this time, right beneath his chin. “What does it mean? The song.”

Relief flooding through him, he exhales shakily as he recalls the translation.

“The joys of love are but a moment long   
The pain of love endures the whole life long

Your eyes kissed mine, I saw the love in them shine   
You brought me heaven right then when your eyes kissed mine.

My love loves me, and all thy wonders I see   
The rainbow shines in my window, my love loves me

And now he's gone like a dream that fades into dawn   
But the words stay locked in my heartstrings _ , my love loves me _

_ Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment. _ _   
_ _ chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.” _

Elain remains silent, and he thinks that he can feel a steady dampness through his shirt.

* * *

“This might just be a piece of heaven on earth.”

Elain smiles, mouth full of chocolate cake, as she wipes some of the icing off her lip with her fingers. She sits across from him, folded in her chair and a plate set before her next to a mug of milk. A few old books sit open between them on the round table, a honey jar and a cartoon of milk spread along the surface.

Azriel’s been regaling her with the many tales of mischief Rebel has been up to since he took her in, accompanied with pictures he had taken on his phone of the incidents. Elain laughed herself hoarse at Rebel clinging to the messed up blinds that used to be in his living room, caught red handed and in the middle of the act, and she laughed, even more when he imitated what he thinks would be Rebel’s voice. “Oh you’re home early.”.

Elain sniffs, taking a tissue and blowing her nose after she hands him his phone back. “How did you get her?”

“I found her in a garbage dump, January this year. It was freezing, she was so filthy I could barely tell her face apart. I took her home and found that she had a split broken leg and then I took her to the vet. She was just a kitten, the vet thinks she couldn’t have been a few months old.”

“Aw. It’s good of you to rescue her,” Elain’s fingers twirl the fork, a habit he has realized seems to take over her when her thoughts do.

Azriel casts his thoughts back to this year’s cold January. He called Mor for advice and she instantly came over to help him nurse the kitten. He’s sure that he filmed the process.

He swipes through his camera roll until he comes on the video. He slides the phone over to Elain and picks his fork again, resuming his crusade against the slice on his plate. Elain’s features soften as the video plays, pouting sympathetically at the state Rebel was in. Though Azriel internally grimaces on his voice coming through the speakers (does he really sound like that?), Elain smiles, commenting that it’s weird to see him use both hands.

When a third new voice joins his and Mor’s in the video, he freezes.

Milo- Azriel’s forgotten that he’d come over too when Azriel told him about the kitten he found.

_ “Move aside, Legally Blonde, let me see, let me see,” _ Milo’s voice is knives to his ear, mainly because it makes his eyes prick with tears and makes his throat clog up.

_ Oh God, it hurts, Az. Please make it stop. It hurts so much... Moma? I want my moma. Az, please, it hurts. _

“Who’s that?” she looks up, a faint smile on her lips. “His voice is amazing.”

The tightness in his chest suddenly loosens. He blinks away the sharpness in his eyes. “Milo,” he says, finding that speaking his friend’s name doesn’t hurt as much as he feared. “My friend.”

Elain looks back at the video that displays his friend holding Rebel in his palms and her smile is precious and bright. “He looks adorable. What’s he doing with the police? He belongs in the Cute People Exhibit.”

Azriel’s smile widens tenfold its size. “He’d love you to bits.”

Elain’s smile doesn’t abandon her lips. “I’m honoured. Is he a detective too?”

Azriel looks away, inhaling sharply through his nose. “He’s… He died.”

“Oh, no,” her tone drops,that smile fading away. “.. _ Oh.  _ He’s.. He’s the friend you lost?”

“How do you know that?” he doesn’t mean his voice to come as sharp as it does but Elain doesn’t seem to care.

“Feyre mentioned something about you losing a friend,” she reveals calmly. “I’m sorry you’re going through that. Are you all right?”

There’s something about the question that a lot of people have asked him that is different somehow coming from her lips. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a lot of things about him when it comes to many things and he’s finding out that he doesn’t know things when it comes to her either.

What he does know is that maybe because she’s relatively a stranger, or that she doesn’t know anything, or that she is willing to listen only, but he finds himself forming an answer that he doesn’t have to think through.

“I miss him,” he says quietly, looking down at the crumbs and icing remaining on the plate. “He- I just do. Everyday. I say I’m dealing with the grief to my friends, but I’m not grieving. At least I don’t think so. I just miss him, and I don’t know how to deal with that. I’m not sad, I’m not angry. I just wish I could have had more memories with him. I didn’t want them to end.”

Elain does not respond. When he glances up at her, there’s a startling vulnerability in her eyes laid bare and clear in bright moisture.

“I know,” she whispers softly, barely heard in the half-finished study, her interrupted dreams and life scattered around them in half-finished touches of establishing a life. A thin sheen of bright tears glisten in her eyes but don’t fall. “I do too.”

For once, it feels like the tight knot in his chest that comes from remembering Milo’s death has found an outcome once and for all. He lets loose a breath and leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table and sharply withdraws them when they bump with hers.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting straight and rubbing his forehead. His gaze lands on the remains of the chocolate cake. “I’ll miss this too when it’s over. Did you make it?”

With a slight turn of her lips, Elain nods once, rubbing her eyes. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m in love with it,” he corrects. Then he remembers the reason he’s here eating it in the first place. “Just to be clear and honest with you, Elain, is your bakery the reason you invited me over?”

Elain opens her mouth to answer when Azriel’s phone in her hand cuts her off. She glances down at it before holding it out. “Morrigan.”

He doesn’t reach out to take it, contemplating his choices briefly. “Decline. It’s okay.”

Brow furrowing slightly, Elain presses the red button and sets down the phone. “Uhm you were saying?”

He regards her quietly, hoping that he hasn’t misread their situation at all and what he’s about to say won’t make her feel uncomfortable. “Uh, I just want to avoid a misunderstanding between us. When you invited me, why did you? What is this?”

Elain slightly smiles, ducking her head. “I don’t know. That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Ah so the chocolate cake bait worked.”

She chuckles. “You and food,” shaking her head, she briefly rubs her eyes before sitting straighter, leaning her forearms on the table. “Okay. I’ll just blurt this out. I think you’re very interesting and I’d like to get to know you better. I think I can safely say you find me a mildly enjoyable company, right?”

“Not really no.”

Her face drops before he adds. “Not mildly.”

Relief floods her wide eyes before she chuckles, running her fingers over the ridges of her nails. “Okay, smart-pants. I like you. I used to also find you attractive when we first met. I like what I see so far, so this is me being really brave because I don’t do this at all. I’d like to know you better. What do you have to say?”

It’s impossible not to be sincere with her. “I honestly think you might be what I’ve been looking for all this time.”

A curious look enters her gaze. “That’s the thing, Azriel,” she says softly. “I’ve never met someone like you.”


	11. Chapter 11

"Move."

The single command uttered gruffly is followed by a nudge in her back. Elain complies.

She runs her fingertips over the uneven ridges of her nails as she puts one hesitant foot before the other, knees weak and footsteps inaudible next to the rhythmic thuds of boots next to her. Three pairs of footsteps beside hers.

Two heavily-muscled men flank her, towering over her petite frame, dressed in formal drab black suits. They look like they belong to a security company, and though Elain has yet to spot any weaponry, they terrify her. A third man is directly behind her, the trio forming a triangle designated to contain and trap Elain into following their directions.

They lead her through a standard door to an old warehouse, the hustle and commotion of people and heavy machinery inside of it telling her it's far from abandoned. The heavy scent of something chemical and unpleasant takes Elain back to her time in her university labs running experiments on plants and drugs. Elain indulges a few plans of attempted escape but knows that her best chances of survival are to seize an escape opportunity when she sees it and to avoid doing anything stupid which, in this case, is briefed in anything that’s not what she’s ordered. 

They cross the threshold of the warehouse, a shove in her back making her walk again after she craned her neck to glimpse the interior. She shivers in her favourite old coat clasping her shaking hands in a death grip to steel herself and forces herself to hold firm. She catches herself thinking of replacing her well-loved coat with something that would keep her warm and banishes the thought from her head. Not the time. 

Wind whips at her face as they walk out of the warehouse, tousling her hair from its low ponytail, right onto a large outdoor space too big to be a balcony. She can hear the running stream of the Sidra before her focus is averted to the people waiting there and whatever colour is left in her face drains away at the sight.

The inky night has all the stars smothered tonight from the sky, the sources of illumination coming from industrial lights on the walls. Elain feels immediately out of her zone in this hostile atmosphere. Her eyes track everything around her, trying to make sense of where she is. 

A small table for two is laid out by the railing overlooking the riverside, and seated at it is an elderly gentleman in thick rich furs of various shades of brown. The wind carries with it a heavy opulent musk of cologne right into her nose as she's nudged towards the empty seat.

People that she assumes are there for security purposes stand around them, scattered in various corners and armed with on-display rifles that Elain is sure Cassian can name.

The man on her right pulls out the chair for her and gestures for her to sit down.

Eyes darting from one expressionless face to another, Elain sits, her heart thumping at an alarming rate against her ribcage, rendering her breathless.

The elderly man regards her quietly as she tries to suppress the tremors racking through her stone-cold body. With one wrinkled hand, he slips the glasses off his face and soundlessly sets them down on the tabletop; folding his hands together in his lap as he sits with one leg crossed over the other. It’s abundantly clear that he is old; the silver hair streaked with dark red remains does him no justice. His face is lined with wrinkles, and his mouth large and smudged with the folds of his aged skin. He looks comfortable with sitting, his posture relaxed and slumped as he regards Elain with those beady eyes of his. 

Elain might have been more bemused if she was less terrified. The setting might have been considered an attempt as a romantic dinner for two were it not for the several armed men lurking and positioned all around them. It's the worst combination of an attempt at a romantic scenery crossed with the promise of having someone’s nails ripped out. 

She searches for the words to say, but even "who are you?" dies in her throat before she can convince herself to move her lips.

The bakery was silent and sleepy today; customers trickling in bleary-eyed and seeking refuge in silent companionship with their coffee and pastries. Shubert softly played in the background soothing frayed customers. Elain was back in baking, only her and another new baker working the kitchen solely.

She had been enjoying the almost silent world; the rumble of cars passing by, the sound of her machine whirring, the clink of life outside in the front of the house, the timer ticking and the oven finishing baking.

Ianthe hadn’t left her office once to watch over them –which thinking about now echoes suspicion- but she stuck to making herself scarce, and Elain had not minded. There was something lovely about being in the large kitchen alone. She reveled in it, enjoying the extra space and freedom of movement.

Walking to her car long after dark fell, Elain had been busy fishing for her keys in her back to notice the man standing next to her car. And though she had thought to run, stumbled back and prepared herself to bolt, another made himself known and they had asked her to get into the black car parked next to hers. There hadn’t been much of a choice for her; it was either go quietly or go with smarting bruises.

Shaking, looking from one person to the other, her shoulders slumped and she followed the second man to the car, wondering what on earth she got herself into.

The cold wind lashes at her face. She rubs her icy hands together under the table, knees too weak to do anything. Her eyes stray momentarily from the man before her, looking at the objects on the table.

Alight candles, fake greenery and table decoration, and in the place of a plate before her a framed photo-

She chokes on a sob.

Winnie's smiling face stares back at her, her wide beautiful eyes capturing her joy. Elain shudders visibly, her head throbbing as her gut folds in on itself and twists. She's going to throw up.

"The weather is taking a turn for the worse," a raspy voice interrupts her slow descent into madness. Her eyes snap to the man, hand clenching into a tight fist.

He peers back at her, a frighteningly deadened expression marring his withering face. Elain’s chest rises and falls, and with every passing second in the hushed silence, her fear churns.

"A storm is coming," he comments, his breath reeking of tar and nicotine, the cologne doing nothing to mask the repulsive smell of his breath. Elain’s stomach turns more when she catches sight of his yellow teeth to match the smoker’s appearance. 

Elain tightens the clench of her fists on her knees. Winnie's sweet smile boils her blood. Elain's fear dissolves, replaced with an ugly monster of protective anger.

She sits straight, gritting her teeth.

"We must look to our own," he continues. Elain's lips twitch.

She can recognise a threat when she sees one.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

The words are spat without hesitation, it’s like she’s not the same person anymore. Her tremors have subsided somewhat and the only shaking is in her clenched fists as she glares back at the impassively faced man.

"My name is Beron, Miss Archeron," his grave voice answers. "You may have heard of me."

"I have."

"You should know then, my reputation precedes me."

"I don't."

“ You see Elain, I'm a businessman, and success is the number one priority in this business,” he says, shifting in his seat. He reaches into his coat, only to pull out a packet of cigarettes. “And though I’m a man of reason, nothing comes before my business.”

He shifts in his seat, hollow eyes burning his words into her. “Now, Elain, I'm in the middle of a very important business transaction that will shape the future of my dynasty. I am securing it, and making sure nothing comes in its way.”

Elain looks away from him, glancing at the railing and the river beneath. Is he the one who murdered Freddie? Is this where they shoved the poor teenager into the water after they killed him?

She blinks her dry cold eyes before looking back at him. "I don't care. It's nothing to do with me."

“ _ Don't make it so _ ,” he warns softly, a threatening ugly darkness in his expression, the only light in them being the flicker of the flames from the candle. "I'm told you're an accomplice in a robbery concerning me."

"A robbery of what?" She says back in an empty tone.

The only answer is the slightest tilt of his head and a faint unamused smile on his cracked lips. "The direct perpetrators have been dealt with. They've refused to name their accomplices out of fear or loyalty, but neither is important."

"I'd help you," she blinks at the picture of Winnie. "But I can't give a damn.”

“A twenty-six year old teacher in Foxwood Private Academy school stealing a few grands from me to make ends meet is not worth her two and nine months old daughter’s head rolling-“

"You can't be that much of a hotshot," she interrupts calmly, her nails digging into her palm as the horrible image is gleaned perfectly into her mind. "If you're talking to me yourself."

He quietly sighs, as if she is a troublesome fly. Quite frankly, she doesn’t know what she’s here for.

“Sir, we can-“ one of the men pipe up before he waves a silencing hand.

“You aren’t understanding, Miss Elain. I’m forgiving your wrongdoings-“

“I haven’t done  _ anything _ ,” she hisses suddenly, slamming her fists onto the table in a loud bang that shakes the contents. Her jaw clenches, muscles jumping as she increases the pressure. “I haven’t stolen anything a day in my life. I don’t plan on stealing from you. I don’t make quick cash to make ends meet. I think I am doing fine as I am,  _ thank you very much _ . The only reason I’ve remotely heard of your name is because one of my coworkers showed up dead and I’ve heard it might have something to do with you. I mind my own damn business. I don’t talk to the law enforcement, I don’t talk to the mobs of the state. So you don’t have to forgive me for  _ anything _ .”

Beron has pulled out a cigarette during her small rant and lit it. He puffs on it for a few moments after her words die down and exhales the smoke in a luxury of time. She has to be back home with Winnie, she has to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t know where they’ve gotten that picture of her, it’s certainly not her house. This is a recent picture of her and Elain hasn’t had time to frame or print out anything.

“But you invite detectives into your house at night,” he speaks around the cigarette in his mouth.

“What?” her heart sinks slowly.

Is this... is this because of Azriel? Because she’s been asking him to babysit for her and now to the outsider’s eye it seems like she has a sort of arrangement with him?

Had he gone ahead and spoken with his superiors anyway? Last night at dinner he had chosen to comply with her underlying wishes and withheld information that could solve Homeland’s issue with Beron’s shipment of pure cocaine? Or was that just to shut her up? When he went home that night, had he called ahead anyway, Elain’s wishes be damned?

Why is the disappointment in her so great?

He nods to a man next to him, and he comes forth, extracting a file from his jacket and putting it down before Elain on the table.

“Azriel Bougainvillea,” Beron puffs smoke into the cold air, looking up at the dark sky. Elain looks down at the brown file, his name printed on a blank piece of paper that is the first thing to greet her when she opens it with a single finger. “30 years old. Senior Detective. Born to Derek Bougainvillea and Ramona Pérez. Adopted by Farida and Christopher Blackwood in 1996. Three half-brothers. Two adopted siblings: Rhysand, Rhys, Blackwood and Elizabeth, Ella, Blackwood. 6’2 feet, hazel eyes, black hair. Most recently with a stabbed and broken shoulder and collarbone. Does that tickle your memory, Miss Elain?”

“You’ve done your homework,” she finds herself saying. “What’s this man got to do with anything? What do I have to do with anything?”

Beron eyes her quietly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “My organization is a point of interest for him, Nuala Hoyle and Varian Madani at the moment. It seems their superior officer Helion Day hasn’t carried true on our agreement with him. They’ve planted an informant in my crew, Henry Douglas.”

Elain screws her eyes shut. “It’s none of my business,” she says softly. “What do you want from me?”

“Miss Elain I don’t think you’re as innocent as you seem, but I’m forgiving this, once.”

She huffs, rubbing her face. “Okay, a card from Target would have made that clear.”

Beron regards her. “I have a request.”

“Ah,” she nods. “There it is. You come at me with threats to my family, then show that you’ve my life under observation and everyone in it, and then you pretend to be gracious so I’ll be thankful. Just for a request. What do you want?”

“There’s someone,” he begins carefully, choosing his words cautiously. “He’s chosen to cut me off. When he renounced his family and left, I allowed it. I thought it would be for a few months. It’s been seven years. I’d allow him the peace but… I need him back. Urgently.”

Elain blinks slowly at him. “How’s that any of my business?”

Beron gives the briefest of dead smiles. “He’s your boss.”

Elain’s mind blanks out.

“Eris Vanserra.”

* * *

They drop her off right where they picked her up. The minute the black car disappears from view, Elain falls to her knees.

Bile rises in her throat and before she can hold it back, she’s heaving on the pavement, choking for breath, coughing with hot tears spilling from the corner of her eyes. She sharply gasps, sitting up. Elain struggles for breath, hugging her shaking arms to her chest as her body shakes and sobs escape her lips.

Winnie. Winnie. Keep her safe. Safe. 

She finds it in herself to push herself off the ground and stumble against the car, knees and elbows smashing into it before her hands manage to unlock it and swing the door open.

It’s like she’s drunk with poor abilities over her body. She barely manages to stumble into the seat, find her phone and pull up Azriel’s contact.

Before her finger presses on it, she hesitates.

_ Breathe _ , she tells herself, shoving her hair from her face.  _ Think. Calm down. _

She opens the messages between them instead. His texts don’t read anything out of the ordinary and the last message had been fifty minutes ago. He made dinner.

The phone slides into her lap. She buries her face in her hands, putting her efforts into calming her breathing. If something was wrong he would have told her. If she calls now in her state, he’ll know something is wrong. And Elain has yet to understand what she’s been through and why.

She brings her feet into the car and closes the door. She just has to make it home, make sure Winnie is all right and find out where they got their hands on a photo of her from.

Her plan doesn’t stop her from shaking too much and being weak in the joints. She doesn’t think she can even drive, but she’ll have to.

* * *

"So in conclusion, as we can see here after all that, this is why blue is a superior colour to brown."

A small heating conditioner's engine whirls in its plastic frame as the fan works to blast warm heat into the cold atmosphere of the living room. The heat alike that from a blow-dryer warms Azriel's socked feet as he sits on the carpet, notebook in his lap depicting various arrows and sentences forming together a cohesive train of thoughts. Rebel has taken to drape herself over his crossed ankles and she plays with trying to unravel the fabric of his jeans by her claws, occasionally scratching him.

"Aboo?" Winnie asks, kneeling next to him, head tilted to read the opened notebook and her hands on her knees. He taps the concluding sentence of ‘BLUE > BROWN’ with the tip of the sky blue marker he knicked from Elain's makeshift workspace on the dining table.

"Uhu. So you see,” he fidgets against the couch as his shoulder itches. He pauses for a moment to wait for the pain to die down before he continues. “After all these valid arguments and points, we've come to the inherent conclusion that blue is the most superior of the two. We've discussed it in regards to clothing, food, inanimate objects, animate objects, song names, psychological meanings, personal taste and physics, and it has passed with flying colours."

Winnie points at  _ Blueberries ?? Chocolate _ with an inquisitive "Weally?"

He hums affirmatively. "Yes, I see why you'd point that one out. Chocolate is incredibly superior to blueberries but I argue that chocolate is originally black -or dark if you will- and we add white to alter its colour. So really, brown chocolate is not the one true chocolate. And besides, there are other forms of chocolate; white, dark, mint, etcetera."

Winnie takes her time to respond, bright eyes regarding the paper before looking at him and then back at the graphs. "Bub badada!"

Nodding along, he hums once more in agreement. "I agree. One can argue that the most common form of chocolate as we know it is milk chocolate. We are born and introduced to it, so to the human mind, there is no other original form. And besides, it is altered to perfection you might say. Even if we give this point to Brown, it still does not add up enough against the staggering points that Blue has gathered."

Winnie remains quiet before nodding her head. He holds out his hand and shakes her small one when she grasps it. "Nice debate there, Miss."

"You too Azeel."

"Would you now like to learn a new colour or are brown, blue, yellow and green enough for the week?"

"No," she shakes her head.

"Okay, we can work with that," he grabs his phone from its hiding place under Rebel's bum on the floor and clicks out of the lyrics to Halsey's song  _ Colours  _ on Google to snap two pictures of his notebook; the blue Vs brown trial and the green Vs yellow trial.

After texting them to Elain he shuts them close and regards the girl. "So what do you want to do? We've played with Pinky and Rabbit, they're still recovering from their adventure to save Pinky's brother. We had a tea party. We watched Pewds. We had snacks. We've filmed skits of you and Rebel. What else is there to do?"

Winnie taps her chin with her index finger and he mirrors the action, twisting his mouth the way she has learned from a cartoon on TV that means ‘someone is thinking’. She hums, then her eyes gleam and she taps her temple, grinning.

"Yes?"

"Moona!"

"Moona?"

"Weltome! Weltome!"

"Well done?"

"Noooo. Weltome!"

"Oh, welcome?"

"Uhu!"

"Th..ank you?"

"Yes!!"

"I'm so confused, can you explain?"

"Moona!" She whines, fed up. "Buoo!"

"Moona, welcome, thank you and blue," he frowns. "I didn't know we were playing charades but okay... No, I'm not getting it, sorry."

"MOONA!"

"I really want to know what you mean by those but I haven't the faintest clue. I'm sorry."

Her posture slumps and her lips pout.

"I'm sorry, bunny," he smoothes her hair and raises her chin a bit. "I really want to help you out but it seems like we can't meet each other halfway yet. Want a compensating apologetic hug instead?"

She burrows into his side after he opens his arm and presses her face to his chest as he brings the limb around her.

"I can start dinner. Are you hungry now?"

"Cookie."

"You want a cookie? I'll get you a cookie, don't you worry. Let's go fetch Winnie a cookie."

Tonight he's supposed to go out with his friends. Usually the last Sunday of every month they've made it a tradition to meet up; Rhys has cancelled going this time, pleading his need to take care of Feyre, and Amren hadn’t responded to the group chat which meant she was busy with her job, so it's just the three of them tonight. Azriel hopes they'll go out for sushi but he's not sure Mor and Cassian will pull through their dislike of it for him.

By the time Elain's expected to come home, he's packed his belongings, finished dinner and cleaned whatever mess he and Winnie made that day. The girl, catching up on the pattern he and her mother have created, realises that it's time for him to leave and thus clings to his legs while he washes the dishes one-armed.

It's endearing were it not slightly worrying, when he thinks about it. The girl doesn't have any reason to leave the house, unlike them, so he doesn't know when was the last time she left the house and enjoyed the outdoors. Maybe it's too early for him to ask Elain's permission to take her out on their own, so perhaps it's time he pays his sister-in-law a visit. Winnie would like that.

When he hears Elain's car pulling into the garage, he has his bag on his shoulder and ready to leave, waiting by the door to the garage to bid her goodbye before he goes.

Elain doesn't come through the door.

One minute, two, by the third he's unlocking the door and sticking his head in. She's standing before the closed door of her car, staring at the handle, her face an unnatural pale and sickly tone.

"Elain? Elain are you all right?"

Winnie comes and peeks through the crack between his leg and the wall before he hurries to Elain.

"Hey," he softly speaks, standing next to her and touching a hand to her elbow when she doesn't respond. "Elain? Are you okay? What's the matter?"

"Is she okay?" She croaks hoarsely, eyes fixed on the door.

He looks back at Winnie standing on top of the two stairs, watching her mother. "Yes. Yes, everything's fine. What's the matter?"

To his shock, her throat bobs and tears pool in her eyes. She sniffs sharply, pushing back her shoulders and standing straight. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she rights her composure. "It's nothing. I just have had better days."

"You don't have to hide it from me."

She smiles a quick fake thing. "Jumped by a man, nearly got robbed.”

He holds back the urge to call her out right then and there. She’s a terrible liar. “Elain, you can tell me.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes, sniffing. “It’s okay.”

It most certainly is not. Only yesterday he had her complete attention and thoughts; her eyes had been open like a book he could read, her vulnerability exposed without care. He had seen every emotion she allowed him the chance to see, had been witness to a side of her he wondered how often she showed.

He’s lost that, now, for some reason. Whatever scared her has shoved her into a shell.

“Can I help?”

She sidesteps him, occupying her hands with anything as she walks away. “No, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Elain,” his throat bobs. He swallows his pride. He’ll ask. Hopefully, he’ll get an answer. “Did I do something wrong?”

She pauses on the stairs, her hand on her daughter’s head. Elain looks once back at him, meeting his gaze for a few fleeting moments. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure without making a bigger mess.”

He takes a step towards her. “Can I fix whatever I did?”

She purses her lips and shakes her head once. “No. Whatever’s done is done. You did it or not.”

“But is it- do I have to apologise for it? Can I make it up for you?”

Elain’s eyes soften. It’s a heart-wrenching side to see of her; dried tear tracks on her extremely pale face, her eyes bright and soft, mouth curved down at the sides, her hair in disarray. “It’s okay, Az,” she assures him quietly. “It’s okay. Maybe I’ll ask you about it if need be. But it’s okay for now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says anyway.

“Don’t be. You don’t have anything to be sorry for… Do… Do you want to stay a bit?”

It’s an empty invitation and she clearly looks like she needs her time alone. That he can understand too well. “No, I’m meeting my friends. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She nods, and doesn’t insist. “Bright and early.” 

* * *

_ -Hey man, sorry, but I can’t make it tonight. Have fun with Mor. _

_ = Azriel, I just remembered I have an article to write and edit. So sorry hun, next time we’ll have fun for sure and hopefully Rhys will show up. If we’re lucky maybe we can persuade Amren too. Xoxo. _

Sighing, Azriel tosses his phone into the passenger seat next to him where he had put his bag and waits for the red light to change. Glancing at Rebel in his sling, he drums his fingers on the wheel and takes a turn on the street when the light beams a bright green.

Rebel moves in his sling, poking at his chest.

“I know you can’t stay like this,” he snaps. “But you hate your carrier. What am I supposed to do?”

She meows quietly, earning his sigh.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m trying everything I can and no one wants to meet me halfway. It’s nothing to do with you.”

Cassian, he can understand may have had a sudden reason to stay home or have had a sudden responsibility. Rhys wants to be there for his wife and kid, Azriel can understand that enough. Mor... Mor probably just doesn’t want to see him.

Which is something he can understand too, all too well. He’d avoid the person who brought him nothing but trauma and issues since he’s known them. He does, in fact.

If he’s honest with himself, a part of him hadn’t been repulsed by the sight of Charles again. A part of him had been eager to see him again, an ill part of him wanted to rebel against his progress and bring him back into his life again, if only to fight something.

Some days, the anger is better than most. Some days he’s just exhausted and lonely and tired and sad. Others, he just wants to pelt his problems with his fists until they’re bleeding and numb. Charles would be the best clothes hanger to hang it all on- wouldn’t things be simpler that way?

He stops at another light where he forces himself to even his breathing pattern. The thought that he’s to Mor what Charles is to him makes him sick. He isn’t, is he? If he was, she would have kicked him out from her life without a moment’s hesitation. Mor’s smart that way.

Or are these subtle avoidances of hers hints she wants him to take? She’s unwilling to carry the blame of ending their friendship because she doesn’t have a valid reason so she wants him to do it?

He runs his hand through his hair and tugs at his furiously. But she makes efforts to reach out to him. She called him the other day.

Azriel breathes in. He’s grappling at straws and trying to find connections where there are none. Being off duty is both a blessing and a curse; the lack of a case to busy himself with makes room for his less-than-favourable thoughts to occupy, yet it also gives him a chance to recover.

It’s never easy working his job, especially the past couple of years where crime in the whole state of Velaris has skyrocketed. His first years in the force had been dull, boring and every bit of the image he was told to expect when becoming a detective. The cases that could be described as remotely interesting were solved in a matter of days, sometimes hours. His superiors had kept him rotating from one division to another to prevent him from burning out like most detectives, until he landed under Helion’s command in the Homicide division and things became interesting.

Interesting and tough. He had investigated children deaths, serial killings, gender-based crimes. Has had to tell parents that their children have been murdered, has had to hold weeping loved ones and explain to them the circumstances of their loved ones’ death.

It chips away a piece of the soul, constantly doing that. Even after he’s closed a case, he still dreams of them if he’s lucky enough to fall asleep.

His phone vibrates briefly in his pocket. He frowns. His work phone.

_ -Sal’s Pizza. Now.  _ Reads the text he’s received.

Azriel slams his foot on the engine the minute the light turns green and takes a sharp right, changing destinations towards downtown.

It takes him fifteen minutes, the streets mostly empty Sunday night, and the pizzeria’s mostly empty save for a few customers.

He leaves Rebel in the passenger seat and keeps the car running. He steps out of it, gently shutting the door behind him as he looks around. His eyes land on an empty silver familiar sedan parked unassumingly between cars. His hand itches to stray to his glock at his belt, but it’s best not to give away its place.

A quick bird whistle makes him turn, where his eyes land on a black haired man leaning against the shop’s wall, eating a slice of pizza. He pushes off the wall, chewing on the mozzarella and meets Azriel’s eyes. After a quick wink from him, Azriel walks into the shop.

Inside the pizzeria, a few pairs of eyes look at him before turning away, leaving him to survey the room before placing an order for a slice of greasy pepperoni in the hot diner smelling of oil and heavenly baked goods. Once he’s paid for it and has it in his hand, he walks out again into the cold. 

Jurian keeps his eyes on the road as he leans once more against the wall, but his mouth twists into a small insufferable smile as Azriel stands next to him and takes a bite of the slice.

“I don’t know why you keep choosing this place,” he says finally. “The cheese’s awful.”

“Hello to you too,” Jurian sips his coke, eying Azriel’s appearance. “ _ Sal’s Pizza _ is an institution. The pizza here is only for those of superior mature taste so I don’t expect you to appreciate it. By the way, I really want to see the other guy. How’s he doing if he did you this dirty?”

“Coma,” responds Azriel. “What do you have for me?”

“Well,” Jurian takes his time in replying. “Because I’m a very good friend-“

“My ass.”

“-we’ve been keeping an eye on the 18 th , as you know. I have some findings I’d like to report to you.”

“You’re supposed to report on your own,” Azriel reminds him. The 18 th are Nuala’s responsibility, Azriel’s taken the 16 th and Anvil. The latter being the organisation Jurian’s part of.

Jurian is Azriel’s informant on the 16 th gang, one of the seven, where its leader Mooney has taken to calling herself Queen of Hearts (a bit ironic, in Azriel’s opinion, considering the woman herself is as repulsive as could be imagined but she’s cunning and wicked so she’s a point of interest). The only reason Jurian has agreed to cooperate with Azriel is because the detective knows his pressure point.

His ex, Miryam, and his five year old son.

“Well we’ve been keeping an eye on the 18 th anyway, do you want what I have or not? There’s not much I can tell you about my own.”

He’ll just have to tell Nuala himself. “Yeah?”

“Beron’s dying,” a gleeful smile has curled Jurian’s lips and lit his eyes. Azriel raises his eyebrows.

“Oh?”

Jurian nods. He has no love for the man, that Azriel knows too well, considering Beron’s attempts on Miryam and his son’s life that drove the police to enrol them in a witness protection program along with her husband, Drakon.

“Tell me.”

“The old man’s got a few months left. Leukaemia  _ and _ lung cancer. Karma works in a funny way, huh?”

“That’s not kar- forget it. How do you know?”

“Well we’ve had our suspicions for a while,” answers Jurian. “He confirmed it tonight.”

Azriel’s expression urges him to clarify.

“He wants his eldest back to fill his place.”

Azriel leans against the wall, shifting his shoulder, his pizza forgotten in his hand. “What about his other sons?”

“Bad apples, even for Beron’s standards. None of them would manage the business at all. It would crash in a few days and even that’s stretching it. Old man knows that, and knows the others are closing in on him for his piece of the state. He wants his eldest to take control.”

Azriel would love a cigarette right now. He hands Jurian his slice of pizza and wipes his fingers on a napkin while his informant wolfs it down.

“Ryder, is it? Or-“

“Eris,” Jurian corrects him. “He left the gang years ago.”

He shifts against the prickly wall. “Opened a school, huh?”

Jurian nods, downing the rest of his coke down. “Beron wants him back in.”

Azriel shrugs. “Well,” he stands straight. “I’ll keep in mind. Wait, you said he confirmed it tonight? How?”

“He met with a teacher in his school. Threatened her with her kid and all, then took a leaner approach when it just made her angry,” Jurian’s brown eyes gleam as he looks at Azriel, his lips twitching as if he knows something Azriel doesn’t. Which, in such case, is highly probable.

“He’s trying nicely with Eris?” muses Azriel, chewing his bottom lip. “Not to be a crime lord expert, but if he left years ago, asking nicely won't do it.”

Jurian shrugs, lips wide in a smile. “Ask first by blowing up his home? I wouldn’t be eager to come back either.”

Azriel blinks slowly. “You find this too amusing, don’t you? I thought you wanted to put bullets in Beron yourself?”

Jurian’s eyes have always been his giveaway. They look more dangerous now, lips twisting in distaste as a dead heartless look gleams in his eyes. “Beron won’t cut it anymore for me,” he says lowly. “I want the head of the snake.”

The King.

Even Azriel finds it in him to bark a short laugh. “Right. Dream big, Jurian.”

“Says the man who wants to dismantle the pillar that the criminal world in Verlais stands on,” replies Jurian with a restrained snarl. “You and I have the same end goals. We’re both after him.”

Azriel turns to him, not finding it in himself to entertain Jurian. Does he sound like that to Helion whenever he convinces him to move against the Heptad? No wonder he hadn’t taken him seriously until he recruited the others to join his crusade.

“Keep your goals realistic, Jurian,” Azriel pats his shoulder. “Beron was realistically within your reach, now you want The King? Hybern himself?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“First of all, considering no one has ever even seen his face and don’t know his real name, it is a problem. A man like him who took control of the Heptad suddenly, reigned in  _ seven  _ gangs under his control and united them under his command is not someone a measly ex-boxer can take down. You hear me?”

“Why are you doing what you’re doing, then?” Jurian challenges, standing straighter. “How is it different?”

Azriel sighs. “You think I’m planning on just storming down The Mountain with my pistol?” he rubs his face. “Man, the Heptad are protected. In every way. Whoever Hybern is, he’s important. To take them, and him, down, you have to leave no door the government or the higher ups can use to get them out of it without exposing how corrupt they really are. You have to trap everyone with the facts. That’s what we’re doing. That’s why you’re helping me. We need enough evidence to condemn them on their own if any DA is going to pursue them. I have friends that I’m relying on for us to make our moves. I’m calculating my steps; you don’t have a plan. That is the difference.”

Jurian stares at him. “I want him-“

“Yes I’m sure you have a strong drive and if this were a Hollywood movie you’d be on your way to put bullets in Mooney, Beron, and every other soul on this earth you think has wronged you. But I’m warning you, Jurian,” Azriel’s voice drops as his humour leaves him and an unamused darkness takes over his voice and face. He steps closer and some of the confidence in Jurian visibly wavers. “If you step out of line and do something other than what I ask, you can kiss the chance of seeing your ex goodbye and maybe you’ll get to see a picture of your kid when he’s graduated college.”

Jurian gulps.

Azriel raises an eyebrow, holding his gaze. “Am I clear?”

Jurian wets his bottom lip and nods once, slightly.

Azriel’s face breaks into a smile that feels wrong, even to him. Jurian looks uneasy until Azriel steps back. “Good job tonight. I’ll talk to Witness Protection and see if you can have five minutes of FaceTime.”

Jurian nods again mutely and as Azriel makes to walk away towards his car, Jurian calls him back.

“Hey.”

“What?” Azriel rounds back. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be rubbing shoulders with any teachers by any chance?”

Azriel frowns. “Beg your pardon?”

Jurian smiles, and slides his hands in his pockets. “Oh I was just wondering.”

“Jurian if you have anything to say, you’re ordered to-“

“It’s just that your name came up today. Beron finds you a point of interest.”

In a minute, Azriel’s stomach has lurched and his heart sunken deep as the words translate in his head. He remembers to school his expression. Jurian doesn’t know. No one does, he reminds himself. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Jurian nods. “Whole file.  _ Azriel Bougainvillea _ ,” he throws out his hands as if presenting a title. “I didn’t know you were adopted.”

“If you have anything useful to say, Jurian-“

“I’m being a good friend,” he holds up his hands. “That teacher you’re hanging out with? Keep her out of this mess.”

What teacher-?

“Or stay away from her, really. Whatever you want. Beron had his eye on you, all I’m saying. By the way, half Mexican, huh? You really are full of surprises.”

“What teacher?” Azriel snarls.

“Oh the teacher they brought to convince Eris to go back into the game,” Jurian says lightly. “What was her name? Something with an E… jeez it was on the tip of my tongue,” he fakes thinking, just to curdle Azriel’s blood more. “Eysh..Eliza? Nah.. what was her name?”

“Jurian-“

“Oh right, the pretty one. Elain Archeron.”


	12. Chapter 12

Azriel sets Rebel on the floor the minute he closes the door to his apartment behind him and pulls out his phone as he flicks the lights on. Rebel keeps to his heels as he takes his shoes off and walks inside, pulling up Elain’s contact.

He tosses his bag at the foot of his couch before sitting down and deciding against it, taking the bag with him to the small room across from his bedroom that he’s turned into a small workplace. He chalks up the nervous pacing to poor sleep quality as he calls Elain, all the while emptying the contents of his bag onto his desk while he waits for her to pick up. He’s not nervous at all.

She doesn’t answer her phone.

He calls again, throat dry and thick as he strides out of the room into the hallway. She must be so scared, rattled and confused. There’s no surprise then that she looked pale as a full moon.

When she doesn’t pick up, he lowers the phone and pauses.

_ Think. _

He walks into his kitchen, opening the freezer and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He opens a drawer, snatching up a lighter before he slides the glass door of the balcony open and steps outside.

_ What’s the best thing to do now? Who’s the cause for the mess? _

He pulls out a cigarette as he pauses at the railing. Flipping it, he puts it back in before sliding out a different one, swiping the filter end of it on his lower lip before holding it there between his lips and grabbing his lighter.

The wind poses a challenge in lighting it so he turns away, ducking his head to meet the lighter and cups the flame with his bandaged hand. He stares at the flame for a moment before he removes his thumb and turns it off.

He couldn’t be sure without asking Elain for the details of what happened to her, but he thinks that he has the basic idea. She had to have been taken after her shift at the bakery which meant either a cooperation between the management of the bakery and Beron’s people or someone had been watching Elain for a while.

Which couldn’t have been possible; Azriel’s monitored the neighbourhood as best as he could; however, it was hard to pin-point the abnormalities when he wasn’t sure of the normality.

Now.  _ Does he have anything to do with this? _

Beron having his eye on Azriel isn’t out of the expected, when he thinks about it. Since Nuala told him that the 18 th offered a deal to Henry, that meant their game was exposed. Addition to that, the informant had gone ahead and called Nuala on her issued phone instead of meeting her personally.

He takes another drag as his eyes flicker shut with the nicotine high. A faint smile plays his lips with the comforting sensation, a warm blanket cocooning his lungs that eases some of the pressure built in his muscles. He forces his eyes open, regarding the lazy streets below twinkling with streetlights and red and white car lights. He sniffs and rubs his eyes.

_ What reason could he have been in order to have Elain put in this situation? _

He can’t be sure without her divulging the information.

And she expects him tomorrow, does that mean he has to keep his distance form her safety and Winnie’s? Should he cancel?

He regards his phone set on the small glass round table along with his packet and lighter. Had she deliberately ignored him?

He walks over to it and takes a seat, flicking off the gathered ash into the ashtray and picks up his phone. She hasn’t texted back or called. Is that a sign that she doesn’t want to talk to him?

Perhaps she’s busy with Winnie.

Azriel leans back in his seat and calls her again. He’s not sure about how he feels regarding Elain going to bed disturbed and panicked, and he doesn’t imagine her confiding in someone about this. He’s not sure, but he doesn’t like the thought.

He gets up again while it rings, pacing the length of the balcony several times. This time she picks up after a few rings.

“Hey, Az.”

His heart did  _ not  _ jump at the nickname almost everyone calls him by. It most certainly didn’t make his heart flutter or his throat to feel thick. He cleared it.

“Hey, Elain. Were you asleep?”

“No,” her voice sounds off. Hollow and distanced.

“Elain…” his words die on his lips. What does he tell her?  _ I know _ , like some creep? Why has he even called her? The need to hear her voice and assure her was so strong, almost as strong as his need for a cigarette when he’s particularly stressed and now that he’s heard it, her fractured mood, it burns him in the chest.

“Yes?”

“Talk to me,” he finally musters after a heavy silence.

“I’m tired, Az, it’s… I’ve got school tomorrow…”

“Elain, I… I had an informant reach out to me tonight,” he says softly, pacing towards the table again and flicking the budding ash before inhaling again. “They told me. About Beron.”

Elain is silent for a long while. “Did you have anything to do with it?” she asks finally, her voice low and withdrawn and guarded.

“No. No, God no. I’d never put you in danger. I’m off duty, Elain. I haven’t got any case to work. I just listen.”

Her voice shakes next and it puts a hole in his gut for his heart to sink through with dread. “I.. You were brought up. It’s none of my business, Azriel, so I don’t understand why-“ her voice catches. “Last night, did you tell your superiors-?”

“ _ No, _ ” he promises immediately. “I wouldn’t dare. You talked to me in confidence and you wanted something off your chest. Even if I reported it, it’s not my case and you’d have to give an official statement. I’d be an asshole if I did, even if they acted on it. And yes, I am an asshole, just never to you.”

She’s doesn’t respond immediately. “What do I do?” she finally says softly.

“Can you tell me about it?”

Her sigh touches him in several ways. He finishes the cigarette and puts it out in the ashtray. “They had a photo of Winnie. I don’t know where they got their hands on it.”

“Your ex?” he suggests.

“I don’t think he cares enough to have a picture of his kid printed and framed,” she replies bleakly.

“Okay.”

“It was confusing,” she admits and he hears some shifting on her part. He imagines she’s lying down somewhere. He can’t hear Winnie. Azriel wets his lips and walks into his kitchen. “And scary. I…” her voice fails.

Azriel opens his fridge and winces at the depressing sight. Not that it’s empty, it’s simply unappealing. He finds a large bottle of Coke so he supposes that it’ll have to do.

“Yes?” he prompts her as he finds a glass and pours his drink into it.

“It’s… It was really scary,” her voice softens with her discomfort. “I was scared. They threatened to have Winnie killed.”

Face softening, he wishes he can properly comfort her. “You’re so brave,” he tells her. “I’m… It’s an impressive thing. I’m proud of you.”

“I don’t feel brave,” she scoffs. “I’m just… I don’t know what to do. Is Winnie in danger? Am I in danger? Was their threat a bluff?”

He takes a sip of the fizzy drink and walks out in the cold again. “I was thinking of keeping my distance,” he admits. “Not showing up tomorrow if the problem is me. Do you think it is?”

“Even if you had reported what I told you about them, would they have found out that quickly?” she asks.

“Honestly, Elain?” he takes a seat and puts his legs up on the round table. “The government is more corrupt than you think. Probably yes, if Beron has the right eyes there. Or if whoever I told it to keep it to themselves, then I don’t think so.”

Elain doesn’t sound so disturbed now that the pair of them are thinking rationally. “Can you say the problem is with you?”

“I don’t think so,” he reaches for his packet and pulls another one out. “My name came up, right? How?”

She explains to him; how they’d tried to convince her they forgave her non-existent wrongdoing and how he was brought up.

The cigarette hangs from his lips for a moment. “What did they have on me?”

“I didn’t look,” she answers quietly, sighing. “He just rattled off information about you. Your parents, Rhys’s parents, your siblings. That sort of stuff.”

“Oh basic information, then,” he rolls his eyes, reaching for the lighter. He snorts. “He could have that anywhere. Beron’s really desperate, huh?”

Amusement seems to colour Elain’s voice at last. “Why, because you’re so mysterious no one really knows anything about you?”

He clicks the lighter and lights his second cigarette. “Honestly? I have some bones in my closet.”

“You don’t look it,” she admits softly.

“Why?” he smiles as he puffs out the smoke. “I look that shallow?”

“No, you just... You’ve given me the sense of a closed-off person when we met ages ago and then I just keep feeling that you’re simply sweet and kind. I can’t picture you how others seem to see you.”

The cheery light of the cigarette eats the tobacco and paper away slowly, ribbons of smoke rising and twisting before he inhales more. “I wish,” he reveals truthfully. “I… Really have been through shit- stuff. Sorry. I try to be like you see me.”

Elain hums affirmatively. “I get it,” then she hesitates. “Will you ever tell me about yourself?”

“Well, I don’t know what pieces you want to know about.”

“Can you tell me about your childhood? Mine was pretty basic, I’m guessing yours was a story.”

He holds the smoke and air in his lungs, prolonging the warmth cocooning his lungs before slowly exhaling it and the itch in his throat makes him reach for another sip of Coke. “You had to pick the toughest, huh?”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Elain assures him. “I’m just eager to know everything about you.”

He finds it in himself to smile. “I will. And you’ll tell me about you, in return.”

“Deal.”

Azriel gets to his feet when his stomach rumbles a bit and makes his way to the kitchen again. “But back to the point, since my involvement tonight was just as a detective, then it’s very likely I had nothing to do with it,” he opens his freezer and pulls out a microwavable meal. “Now I’m not saying this to clean up my picture, but it doesn’t look like I’ve been the cause to put you in danger. If you are in any.”

“Ok,” she replies softly. Her voice is music to her ears, not only because Elain’s is eloquent and well-spoken, but she’s pleasant to listen to and he’s discovering that he likes this version of her.

“I was thinking that I shouldn’t show up tomorrow at your house,” he continues, opening the meal before microwaving it. “What do you think?”

She gives a heavy sigh in answer. “Winnie seems safe with you. You... You do know how to protect yourself if it came down to it, right?”

A wry smile coils his lips. “Can I fight? Yeah, I can. I have a gun on me too.”

“So I’m not stretching it if I think you can protect Winnie?”

“With everything I am, yes.”

The surety and confidence of his statement surprise’s him. What’s more, is his unwavering willingness to do so. He hasn’t thought about it, but now that her mother mentions it, Azriel finds that he’s ready to fight tooth and nail for the two-year-old, as ready as he is to fight for Rebel, for himself, for his friends.

Azriel would have his whole body broken for Winnie.

“It might not be a mistake to have you look after her.”

“Look,” he pulls his meal out of the microwave and softly curses when its heat sharply burns the small bits of skin he can still feel through on his hands. “Sorry. How about you take her to Feyre and Rhys’s place and I’ll look after her there with Felix and Feyre? She’d love the change in scenery. And there’s more space for her to play.”

“Feyre’s exhausted,” Elain argues.

“She might have her spirits raised with the company. What do you say? I was going to ask you to take her there for a visit.”

Elain thinks about it for a while. “I’ll ask them.”

He takes his meal outside where he can smoke in peace. “That’s settled. Are you all right?”

“Kind of, I’m just shaken. But I feel better, thank you.”

Rebel comes to the balcony door and paws the glass door, staring at him like he’s trapped her in a torture house. Huffing, he gets up again and opens the door for her. She sits in his lap when he takes a seat and puffs the smoke into the ceiling away from her.

She still looks offended by it.

“I’m outside,” he reminds her with an arched eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. If you don’t like it, go back in. You wanted to be out here.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, Rebel,” he blinks, switching the cigarette to his left hand as he reaches to take a bite of his food. “She hates it when I smoke.”

“You smoke?”

“Sometimes. I smoke outside the apartment but she came out now,” he looks down at his baby cat. “Yeah? This is my zone. Sorry but you have to handle it.”

“Weren’t you going out with your friends?” Elain sounds confused. “You sound like you’re at home.”

“I am,” he sighs, and Rebel burrows into his jacket behind his sling. He makes sure the wind doesn’t hit her. “But they cancelled. They have work and… I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah...” Azriel breathes in more of the cigarette and blows it out. “Elain, I’m still sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, we just agreed.”

“Still. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Would it have helped you if you knew how to defend yourself?”

“I don’t think so,” she sighs. “Maybe. I’ll focus on the lessons Eris is making us take.”

“Oh, right, you’re having those still?”

“Yes, Cassian’s friend agreed to help. I think we’re taking them this week.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” she yawns quietly. “When are you going back to work?”

“I’m not sure. Depends on my arm. I have a check-up soon. Helion told me I can have the month. I think it’s pushing it.”

“I feel bad about it. You hurt it so many times looking after Winnie.”

He doesn’t need to be reminded. The pain that isn’t subsided except by painkillers is a constant notice. “It’s okay.”

“Doctor check-ups are tough to go through. Winnie hates hers, and so do I.”

“I feel the same,” he laughs shortly. “Mine told me I might have to undergo surgery if my bones haven’t righted themselves so there’s that to think of.”

“Oh, that’s… daunting. Really daunting.”

“Yep,” his eyes fall to his wristwatch and he winces, putting out the cigarette in the ashtray. “Sorry for keeping you up. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Oh! I hadn’t realised. Sure. Thank you for calling me, I really feel better.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Good night, Az.”

That dumb smile on his face again. “Goodnight… Ellie.”

The last thing he hears before she hangs up is her muffled laugh.

He cleans up his mess on the balcony once his cigarette finishes, shooing Rebel inside and away from the cold before joining her inside in the living room. His shoulder aches as he scrolls through Instagram on the couch with the TV turned on for added ambience, and as he’s about to click out of the app, his eyes catch onto the recent feature added a month ago to Instagram. His eyebrows twitch before he clicks on Mor’s story and it takes him a minute to realise that she’s posted a series of stories. After the first picture of the interior of a dance club, a bad taste coats the inside of his mouth and he turns off his phone.

He lies on his couch for a few minutes, sorting through his thoughts. His first instinct is to take it personally. Then he asks himself  _ why? _ and realises it’s a tangle of thoughts he doesn’t want to sort. Azriel sighs and closes his eyes. There’s still some space left in the glass bottle of  _ Mor’s Bullshit I Have To Deal With _ .

* * *

October is wrapped up in the strange business of ending a season and beginning a new one. Halloween comes and goes, an exceptionally cold season following it. Elain takes the change in stride, remembering to have a maintenance worker come round and fix the heater in her house. This time of year is challenging, but if she does it right then she can nail the remainder of the year properly. With Azriel’s offered help, Elain’s had the chance to properly breathe. Feyre had rejoiced at the suggestion of Azriel looking after the children at her house, and she welcomed it eagerly, so Elain was glad for it beyond measure.

Thankfully, there were no more incidents following Beron and his request. A request which Elain didn’t know how to carry out. It’s not exactly a conversation starter with anyone, much less Eris Vanserra.  _ Hi, here are the kids’ grades on the recent test. By the way, your dad called, he wants you back in his probably highly illegal business. _

She’s not exactly clear on the consequences if she fails to do so, but Winnie being with Azriel and in a house as secure as her sister’s helps ease her mind every day. After spending a few minutes trying to say the words, Elain gives up and decides that it’s none of her business. Besides, she’s counting on word spreading of it and Eris finding on his own. If Azriel heard of it the same night, there’s a chance Eris will soon, no?

He made no mention of it throughout the weekend where they took lessons on disarming a shooter and basic self-defence moves. Elain had eagerly thrown herself into it with her colleagues and enjoyed those hours practising moves. Cassian was there, and it was a delight to spend the time with him too. They went for hot drinks after every session, a reminiscent touch of their tradition together.

It was nice, being herself for a while. Not rushing, not worrying over a toddler; sitting with her friend at a café and talking about the upcoming elections like a normal person. She was put in a substantially brighter mood every night she picked Winnie up, something that was not lost on her sister.

“Tell me everything,” was Feyre once she climbed into Elain’s car after buckling Winnie in her seat. Elain’s bemusement was worn on her face, prompting Feyre to clarify. “You, your life, what’s going on with it and how my brother-in-law plays into it.”

“You’re joking,” laughed Elain. “I’m just getting to know him. He’s nice.”

“You smile wider now,” Feyre revealed fondly, her eyes twinkling. “You look happier.”

“Well, I’m breathing,” shrugged Elain, said smile on her face. “I think I managed to stand on my feet finally. It’s nice.”

Feyre wiggled her eyebrows jokingly. “I think he’s smitten.”

“You can’t be serious,” Elain laughed it off while her heart raced a bit.

After a few weeks of the routine, Elain felt it all right for Azriel to babysit Winnie at her home once more. Everything had died down and things were back to their mediocracy of before, the whole country growing busy with the presidential elections. It became the highlight of her day to come home and see what the pair had been up to; one day Elain came home to Azriel frantically trying to clean up in the kitchen where he had tripped and gotten the food he made all over himself; his clothes, his hair, the floor. He apologized over and over multiple times and Elain was too much in a good mood to feel remotely cross.

She told him to take a shower while she cleaned up and had his clothes cleaned. She wrapped his cast for him in plastic wrap securely and handed him a towel before cleaning up. Winnie was sat watching a movie, content with Rebel in her lap and while Azriel was in the shower, his phone rang.

She couldn’t distinguish between his work phone and personal one so she informed him that an unknown number was calling him. Since he gave her the permission to answer it, Elain did.

“Hello, Azriel is busy at the moment, he’ll get to you in a while.”

Was what she intended to say but got interrupted by a male voice.

“Az? Azriel are you there? Don’t hang up.”

“Um, no this isn’t him,” she tucked her hair behind her ears. “He’s-“

“Who’s this?” the man demanded.

“I’m Elain. Azriel’s busy at the moment, he’ll get back to you in a bit. Who’s this?”

The man was silent for a while before he answered. “Charles. I’m his brother.”

“Oh! He mentioned you,” she perked up cheerfully. “I’m his friend, Elain. He’s in the shower right now. I’ll tell him you called.”

“It’s fine,” replied Charles dismissively. “I didn’t know Azriel had a lovely friend like you. When did you meet?”

Elain laughed shortly, and they talked. He was well-spoken, charming and gave Elain the impression that he cared much about his younger brother and looked out for him. They spoke easily while Elain cleaned the floor and wiped down the counter, and Charles had been delightful. She told him about their arrangement and found it slightly odd that Azriel didn’t tell his brother. She shook it off, thinking perhaps it slipped from his mind.

That is until Azriel came out of the shower, dressed in his jeans and an old large jumper Elain found lying around while his clothes were dried. When she told him who had called him, he paled and dread washed over him.

It was unsettling, how disturbed he looked as he took the phone and blocked the number with a heavy scowl on his face. Elain was more confused than anything that the mention of Charles would unsettle him so, the shake of his hand saying enough. He wouldn’t divulge any reason as to why he would hate his brother this much, leaving Elain to conclude it must be part of the childhood he was reluctant to share anything about.

Still, the state he was in, it reminded her of the time the pair went grocery shopping and he came back stony-faced and rattled. He had remained silent all the way home, and Elain hadn’t asked. It was none of her business.

November is a delight to live for many, the cold season promising much snow and cosy nights. But for Elain, who loved spring above all else, it means long nights and cold mornings. Though the silver lining is that once she’s inside her classroom, she can take her coat off thanks to the AC. A bit insignificant, but she’s found that when she’s cosy and warm, she can face almost anything.

Her students can be challenging.

The door to her classroom creaks slightly, and a brief smile tugs at her lips as she grades the kids’ test of the other day. She looks up, folded in her chair behind her desk, one of her students redoing her test next to her. Her eyes fall on a pair of hesitant heads poked through the gap, faces that light up with wide smiles when Elain’s gaze lands on them.

“Close the door behind you,” she instructs softly, her words the only invitation that the kids need before they walk inside with their lunch food.

“Hiya Miss Archeron!” a bumbling bumblebee in the form of a sixth-grader greets her eagerly. Tracy skips to Elain’s desk, a straw stuck between the rows of her teeth transporting her juice. “Watcha doin’?”

“C-can we stay here, Miss?” a more timid student with a stutter requests, Mordred. “I-it’s c-cold outside.”

“Of course,” Elain responds without looking up. “Just remember to clean up behind you.”

Because it’s quite pointless to ask any of her kids to not make a mess. Elain lets them, just makes sure that they understand they are responsible for it.

Mordred and a friend of his wander to the corner of Elain’s classroom where she has puzzles and fun games in a cabinet. Tracy lingers at Elain’s elbow. She notices her classmate Sarah redoing the test and furrows her brow.

“What’s Sarah doing, Miss?”

“Taking the test,” Elain circles a wrong answer and scribbles a minus one. “Don’t bother her.”

“Why?” Tracy perks over Elain’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t think she did well,” Elain reads the second answer and lines a misspelt word.

“Can we do that?” Tracy’s apple-scented breath blows into Elain’s face.

“Yes.”

“Mister Thorne says we can’t,” Iyad standing before Elain’s desk says. “That we only have one chance.”

“Veronica even  _ cried _ ,” gossips Tracy, and nods when Elain raises an eyebrow. Ever the teacher’s little bird, Tracy likes to bring to Elain what gossip she can get her hands on and present them to her teacher as a proud cat would present its owner a kill of its making. Elain sometimes wishes she’d pay as much enthusiasm and mind-power towards her homework; she’s quite tired of the girl making the same mistakes over and over. “Mister Throne shouted at her for it.”

“When was this?” Elain hasn’t seen her colleagues in a while, trying to make the most of her breaks with work she can avoid doing at home. The teacher’s lounge is the hub where one can keep up with the working of the school and all events, but Elain hasn’t set foot in there for a while.

“This morning,” Tracy whispers, her breath tickling Elain’s ear. Personal space- she needs to teach them that definitely.

“Tracy can you and Iyad cut these for me?” Elain’s fingers deftly grab the stack of coloured papers and hold them to the girl. “Into squares.”

“Ooh!” squeals Tracy, grabbing them eagerly. “Yes, yes, yes,” she squeals before skipping off, Iyad trailing her to the supply cabinet. Sarah looks up from her test and sets her pencil down before timidly holding it to Elain.

“Thank you, Sarah,” she slides the paper between the others. “You still have twenty minutes for break.”

The little girl stays in her seat. “Can... Can I help you do something?”

Elain looks up from another misspelling of photosynthesis and regards her student for a moment. Elain knows all too well the cruelty of children and that the girl who had suffered a harsh incident that rendered her scarred for life physically and emotionally is somewhat sensitive to the smallest of comments and looks.

“Of course. Sigrid needs help with her project,” she glances at the girl kneeling on the floor with her various crafts in the corner, bent over a large board. Sarah glances hesitantly at her classmate and a wince crosses her burn-scarred face.

“Can I do something else?” she requests. “Sigrid is a weirdo.”

Elain raises her eyebrows, disapproval in her eyes. “You can help your classmate or go out for lunch with the rest of the school if you don’t have any business staying inside the building.”

Sarah stands up and takes her pink water bottle with her, taking hesitant steps to the eccentric girl and speaks quietly with her for a few moments. Elain watches them out of the corner of her eye and holds back a smile as Sigrid looks up, dark eyes enlarged behind her glasses.

“Huh?” she says, cut from her immersive world.

Sarah speaks again in a low voice.

“Oh! Sure yeah, you can help me glue my super-advanced-and-biologically-superior project!” The girl booms excitedly, scooting to make room for her classmate. They’re so at odds with one another; the composed little lady that Sarah is with her expensive water bottle and her tailored uniform and neat hair in braids without a single hair out as opposed to the little future scientist Sigrid is; dark hair a disarrayed curly mess on her head, gorgeous eyes lurking behind lenses always gleaming with something in her head.

Elain scribbles the tally on the front page and next to the student’s name on her paper. She looks up briefly at her students before marking once more. The door opens abruptly, startling them all as Curtis slams the door shut behind him and leans against it, breathing heavily.

“What the matter, Curtis?”

The boy’s eyes fly open and Elain holds back a smile. “The Boogeyman, Miss! The Boogeyman approaches!”

Collectively all the students gasp and leap to their feet. They know that they’re not supposed to be inside during break.

Curtis drapes an arm over his face and sinks to the floor. “We are doomed!” he laments. “This is the end for us!”

“Quick, hide!” yelps Tracy, grabbing the papers and pulling Iyad with her under the table.

“We could have been invisible!” cries Sigrid accusingly at Elain. “If you let me make The Awesome Invisibility Machine!”

Elain shakes her head. Curtis strides over to her and leans an elbow against her desk, wiggling his eyebrows at her with a smirk. “Miss you look amazing today.”

“What do you want, Curtis?”

He looks affronted. “I don’t want anything!” he says with all the offended demeanour of an old lady who’d been told there was no more tea.

“Curtis.”

“Well, Ma’s gonna smack the crap out of me for flunking the test you see,” he begins. “And Dad’s in London so he can’t save me. I was gonna seek poitocal refugre-“

“Political,” Elain corrects.

“Yeah that. With my neighbours but they’re friends with Ma so they’d hand me over because Ma invites them over for dinner on Sundays.”

“Point, Curtis?”

“Can you loan me a few dollars to safely get out of the city?” he bats his lashes at her. “I got everything to hide, I’ll be the next James Bourne-“

“Jason Bourne.”

“Yeah, I can seal my itentity-“

“Conceal your identity.”

“Exactly, see how you get me? You’re sampostic to my cause.”

Elain sighs. “Why didn’t you do well, Curtis?”

He perks up. Her students have varying types of intelligence and to her grief, they know how to use them. “I couldn’t study, Miss! See, see, I answered correct all the ones I remember from class cause you’re a great awesomest teacher and the ones I didn’t was because I couldn’t study.”

“Hmm? Why didn’t you study?” Elain holds back a smile. She’s not supposed to have any favourites; she really loves 90% of the students she’s taught, but this year’s batch is special all in their own way and most of them Elain will remember for the rest of her life. She knows she’ll be hearing of them in a couple of years’ time when they get set loose into life, conquering each aspect of life they are equipped to.

“Okay it’s my fault, I know, but Batman was on all night and I had to make sure my baby sister doesn’t cry and wake Ma,” he says truthfully. “Can you not give me my test back? Ma’ll get really upset and I don’t want her hurt.”

A tender smile touches her lips. She knows his parents, and she wouldn’t do anything that could ever hurt him potentially. Curtis has a sweet side, taking on the mantle of being the older brother so very seriously and his mother only wants what’s best for him.

“You can take it again,” she tells him. “If you think you can do better.”

“Really?”

Iyad has commando crawled out from under the table and crawled to them, he gets on his knees beside Elain’s desk and pokes Curtis. “Boogeyman’s on the way, Sargent. Take cover.”

“In a second, Commander,” he salutes his friend. “But seriously, can I?”

Elain nods. “When do you want to take it?”

Curtis thinks for several moments. “Can I do it Friday after class?”

Elain reaches for her planner and consults her schedule. “Won’t your mother miss you?”

“No, Friday I can come home whenever.”

She nods and scribbles it down. “Okay.”

Her phone pings on the desk from a received text message. It’s the hourly message from Azriel. Iyad gasps at the lock screen image of Winnie.

“Is that your kid, Miss?” he asks, his words drawing out the hiding children immediately from their hiding places to see.

“Yes.”

“Awwww! She’s so cute!” Tracy makes heart eyes.

“What’s her name?” Iyad asks.

“Winnie.”

“She’s s-s-so pretty,” Mordred stutters.

“Yeah her eyes are so beautiful! They’re the beautifulest eyes I’ve ever seen!”

Elain tucks a smile in one cheek. It’s the common reaction to spotting her baby and she’d be lying if she didn’t admit even to herself that it filled her with pride. She shoos away the kids just as the door opens and they collectively shriek.

Eris raises a single eyebrow and their gazes rest on the floor. He releases the door handle and points over his shoulder and like a string of obedient ducklings following their mother, the kids trail out of the classroom in line, leaving their belongings behind. Eris closes the door behind them and rests his gaze on Elain.

Elain who thinks about what she was asked to do.

Her principle is a notoriously private man, few people know any detail of his personal life aside from what he shares. Elain can’t bring herself to picture him in that life he’s required to go back to. He’s stern and strict and his scowl can scare a crow away, but he’s not the character. What person would open a private school and be a teacher, nurture students and have the patience with them?

“Everything all right?” he asks.

Elain nods. It’s none of her business. Beron can ask him himself. “They’re making their projects.”

He turns his eyes to the classroom instead where Sigrid’s science project laid on the floor and the remnant scraps of coloured paper on the tables. He nods once and looks back at her. “Have you had lunch?”

Elain holds up the papers she’s marking. “Got work. I’ll eat later.”

His amber eyes are startling and sharp on her. “Clare says you haven’t been in the teacher’s lounge in a while.”

“Oh, yeah, I try to get work done on my breaks.”

He doesn’t speak immediately, or at all as he turns on his heel and walks out of the classroom. A minute after he leaves, the students come back inside to collect their things and leave, bidding her goodbyes and farewells.

Curtis shows up five minutes later with food from the cafeteria and the vending machine and tells her The Boogeyman made him deliver them. Confused but grateful, Elain cracked open the soda can, surprised to find it’s her favourite flavour.

By the time the cold has taken a turn for the exceptionally cold and a few days have rolled away, Cassian hits Elain up with an invitation one night.

_ I’m going to meet some friends out of state for the weekend. Want to come see Nesta? _

A wide grin envelops her face at the thought of seeing her sister again. When was the last time? It feels like ages ago. Nesta lives outside Velaris, a few hours drive away, where she gives lectures in universities. Their busy schedules haven’t allowed either to meet frequently, so the idea of spending the weekend at her place excites Elain.

_ -I’d love to, but I don’t know where to put Winnie. I’m not sure Greyson will be on board. _

_ =Your detective might be. _

Would he? Would Azriel be all right with having Winnie over for the weekend? Asking him to babysit her might have been too much but this is going overboard.

Still, she can’t know without asking and finds the perfect chance to ask when he calls her that night.

“What are you up to this weekend?” he asks several minutes later. Elain strokes Winnie’s hair as the girl dozes off in her lap. She turns off the television.

“I’m taking a break from the bakery,” she tells him. “Cassian’s visiting some friends and he offered to take me with him to see Nesta.”

“Huh,” something clutters to the ground loudly from his side. “Oh, happy now are you now that you’ve woken the whole building? I’m going to get evicted because of you one day.  _ Get down from there _ .”

“Leave Rebel alone,” she chuckles.

“Come down.  _ Hey _ !  _ Now _ . How you got over the cabinets baffles me. Oh, now you don’t know how to get down? Here, thank God I’m tall enough, aren’t I? Fuc- Just don’t get up there again. Sorry, Elain. Anyway, where are you leaving Winnie or are you taking her with you?”

“I don’t know,” she gnaws her lips. “I just… Is it bad that I want time for my own?”

“No,” Azriel replies immediately. “It’s not.”

“Well I was thinking of putting her with her dad but it’s not his turn to have her and he gets prissy about it. I don’t know.”

“You could put her with me if that’s fine with you.”

She perks up. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. It might be difficult for her, but I don’t mind. It’s nothing different than watching her, right?”

“I mean you have to give her baths and wash her clothes and stuff,” Elain frowns. Maybe he isn’t suited enough. “Winnie’s a bit… demanding.”

“Well I don’t have a bath, I just have a shower, is that okay?”

She chuckles. That’s his only concern? “It is, I just- maybe it’s too much to ask-“

“Don’t you dare.”

A laugh escapes her. “What?”

“I’m already making plans on what we could do.”

“You really don’t mind?”

“I’ll go bored anyways without her. I don’t like being bored, it’s slightly dangerous.”

“You could always sleep the days away.”

“I have a strange sadistic complex where I make myself uncomfortable and tired on purpose. Trust me, I shouldn’t be given free time. It’s not healthy for me.”

“Just sounds like an unhealthy coping habit to me.”

He is quiet and she thinks she crossed some line, hastening to apologize when he interrupts. “I run away from things,” he shares and makes her go quiet. “I don’t always like facing them. I’m not a confrontational person, I’d rather let something eat me away on the insides until I explode. I have issues I should maybe confront them with the people responsible for them but I don’t.”

She sits straighter with this newfound shared information, drinking in every word eagerly. “I-Ugh this is taking some admitting, but I just hold onto things. Hurts, grudges, memories, words. I don’t make a fuss, I don’t fight someone on them, but I let it stew and I think about it over and over and over until I hurt myself. That’s why I run away from them, I don’t want to face those thoughts, things I’ve seen.”

“Have you told someone about these?”

He barks an empty sort of laugh. “Had the one therapist. Wouldn’t let me book him again. My new one is taking things slow, and it helps but…”

“There’s too much,” Elain guesses.

“Bingo.”

“You must love your job then if it gives you the chance to not focus on other things.”

“Love and hate it,” he admits. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it. Solving crimes, catching criminals and giving dead people their justice. But eventually, you see too much or you burn out.”

“Sounds like you need a healthy coping mechanism,” she notes.

“Yep. I’ve taken up Lego sets and knitting.”

She sputters a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. Maji taught me years ago. And I’m reading books, too. Really helps.”

She buries her hand in her hair and shrugs. “Not one to judge the efficiency of your methods. So does this mean you’re willing to have Winnie?”

“Does it help if I shout it off the rooftop?”

Elain smiles. “Okay. Okay, that’s settled.” 


	13. Chapter 13

There are a few things more exciting than the thrill of getting up from bed before the crack of dawn to leave one's apartment building and be given a child to look after for the weekend. Up until that point, Azriel hasn't done that before and the excitement, one that rivalled what plagued a kid on the night before a school trip, has done a similar job of giving him little sleep. He's excited to have Winnie come stay over for the weekend and since Elain confirmed it he could hardly sit still. 

Rebel had regarded him with affronted eyes as he cleaned up and childproofed the apartment. Though he didn't have many corners that could potentially harm Winnie, with an excited girl who paid no mind to her surroundings, he wasn't willing to take his chances. 

On the night of Friday, he could barely sleep, and when his phone woke him up at the early hours of 5 am, he's awake much too quickly for a man claiming to not be a morning person. He gives it a chance to ring twice before picking up. 

The first thing that greets him that day is Elain's hushed laugh at his immediate response. There is no shade of existence in which that is a bad thing. He sheepishly smiles as he puts the phone to his ear. 

"We're downstairs," she says, voice as sweet as honey. And he is up before he can register it, grabbing a hoodie to stuff one arm through against the chill. Rebel sleeps in his bed, ignorant to the happenings around her. He grabs his keys and remembers to wear something on his feet before he leaves the apartment. 

Downstairs and outside is Elain's car -once Cassian's- and its owner seated inside it with Cassian in the driver's seat. He is wearing a broad grin as Elain steps out the car, and in passing Azriel slaps the hand he stretched to him through the rolled-down window and circles around. 

It's like the trade of precious cargo. Elain bids him a smiling soft "Good morning", briefly touching his elbow before she opens the back door. He meets Cassian's eyes as Elain fumbles with the baby chair's straps. 

"Have fun with Nesta," Azriel says hoarsely before clearing his throat. 

"Oh we will," he nods, reaching for a mug of coffee in the cupholder and drinking much of it in one go. "You're positive about handling the kid on your own?"

"You've never known me to back off from a decision I've made."

Elain carefully straightens, bearing the most precious thing in her arms bundled in winter clothes and a blanket. 

"She's asleep," she tells him in a hushed voice as he holds out his arm and is given the heavyweight of the sleeping Winnie, whose head rests heavily on his shoulder. Elain takes the time to ensure that he's properly carrying her with one arm, fixes her blanket before bringing out the baby's bag and setting it over his shoulder carefully.

"There you go," she smooths her daughter's hair, strokes her cheeks and kisses her face tenderly multiple times with the love and delicacy only a mother can bear. "I love you, baby." 

"She'll be fine," Azriel assures her quietly, loud enough for Cassian to hear. "You just have fun."

She smiles at him, a sort of precious smile of magic and enchantments and a cross of a siren's song. She was always attractive, but that smile on her face leaves no room for anything else in his mind. The world blurs around her and the only contrast is her bright smile and her lovely face. He blinks, reigning in his focus once more. She straightens a bit, pressing her lips to his cheek in a kiss and the world goes out of focus again. 

This feeling... This perfect warm feeling spreading throughout him.. What is it?

"Thank you," murmurs Elain, brushing her hair behind her ears. "We'll see you Sunday evening."

She touches his elbow briefly, glancing one last time at her sleeping daughter, smiling one last time at him, and them steps around to get back inside the car. His feet are frozen in place and that feeling spreading throughout him makes him bid her a soft "wait" that halts her, one foot in the car already, the engine humming with life. 

He leans down and presses his own lips to her cheek. Or it had been the intention, but she turned her face in his direction and he miscalculated. Instead, his lips press faintly, closely, to the corner of her lips. He kisses that spot nonetheless and smiles at her himself. 

The cold weather makes her cheeks flush and the tips of her ears to turn a faint pink. Her eyes twinkle as they widened and her lips part faintly. He thinks she might have returned the kiss again and he would have, too, and they would go like that forever; a tennis match of cheek kisses, with a toddler, nestled against his chest between them. That is until Cassian leans across the seat. 

"Am I going to get a kiss, too?"

That snaps them of their stupor and Elain grins at him before ducking inside the car, bringing the door shut behind her. "Only if you're good," her soft voice replies as she buckles her seatbelt.

"Be a good boy," Azriel tells him knowingly. Cassian grins, pulling the parked car into reverse and salutes him as he reverses the car. Elain waves out the window and keeps waving until they are out of sight. 

Winnie sighs quietly against his shoulder in her sleep. He beams down at her and rushes for shelter into the building from the sharp cold. 

He doesn't go back to sleep after that, instead, he lays Winnie on his bed and removes her coat and outdoor clothing before covering her with the blanket and leaving her there with Rebel fast asleep. Silent as a church mouse he tries to make his way towards the kitchen as silent as he can.

His apartment is fairly silent but for the hum of electricity in the walls, his footsteps muffled on the carpet as he makes his way shortly down the hall and into the kitchen. As the coffee pot brews, he sits at a chair and mulls about what meal to prepare for Winnie. He’s promised himself to feed her only the best and most balanced of meals, his web history search providing a record of all the websites and articles he consulted on food for toddlers.

After deciding on a meal, he takes his coffee to the living room and reclines on the single large couch, eyes sliding shut as he goes through the plans for the day. Elain had said her ex wasn’t all too eager on the idea of a stranger having his child for the weekend and so desired to meet them for lunch. Azriel hopes he won’t be much of a colossal twit to deal with, and reckons that Elain’s ex-husband can’t be that bad if Elain had chosen him.

The detail-oriented man in him wanted to know everything about their relationship, how it started and how it came to an end in a divorce and a custody with Elain. He wonders constantly what was the reason of the drift, and bets it’s probably the both of them being incompatible with one another if the hurt has touched Elain so but did not stop her from denying the man seeing his daughter. Azriel came close to asking Feyre while he spent his time with his sister-in-law about it but held his tongue even though Feyre looked she only needed a single question from him to spill everything. Still he holds himself back, if Elain did not share she didn’t feel it necessary yet.

Come the time Azriel deems appropriate to wake the two girls in his care, he has warmed the apartment sufficiently and the AC in the living room is blasting hot air so he opens his room, crosses the space to his bed and looks down at the child.

She's cuddling Rebel, her golden head poking out from under the blankets and her lips parted, the one corner damp with drool pudgy cheeks just visible. Azriel sits down carefully next to her and smooths her hair.

"Bunny," he says in the softest voice he can muster as his scarred fingers work their soothing ministrations. "Winnie, wake up. Winnie. Come on."

It's really not magic, nor out of the norm, but it's like a spell has been cast anew over his heart as he watches the girl who has become his number one priority wake up. He feels humbled, and insignificant in a positive way that puts a smile to his face.

She finally wakes up, giving a yawn that stretches her face and she regards him with those wide eyes of hers, silent, and for a single moment he's scared she'll be too thrown off by the sudden change of scenery-

Winnie smiles wide.

He beams back.

* * *

Azriel didn't have in mind anything regarding Elain's ex-husband, just his own deductions, so when he and Winnie arrive at the café Graysen chose for their meeting he's both surprised and not.

The man is as basic as ordinary a white man can be; blue eyes, jet-black hair, average height and well dressed. Of course Elain would have had an ordinary husband to fit the set of her previous life. The surprise came in two things, however.

The first was that Graysen is a rich man, that much very apparent in the Rolex on his wrist and the pristine Jaguar he owns, not to mention the Brooks Brothers suit. He seems to have a business meeting planned later on, or has just come from one. Though in hindsight it shouldn't be a surprise; Elain's large house could never be afforded on something like a teacher's salary, Elain's struggling enough testimony.

Which begs the infuriating question nagging Azriel: why is Elain working two jobs to afford raising her girl?

"Graysen?" Azriel steps up to him, holding Winnie's hand who has Rebel tucked to her chest with the other arm. The man looks up and falls short for words when his gaze lands on Azriel but then he remembers himself and stands after he sees his daughter.

"Yes," he holds out his hand and Azriel releases Winnie's to shake it. Graysen seems to have been taken off guard. "You must be Elain's...friend."

"Azriel Bougainvillea," he confirms, pulling out a seat for Winnie.

The second surprise, however, comes in the form of Winnie's silence and obedience.

Azriel's not known her to be anything less than pleasant; Winnie is by no means a spoiled child with ill manners and a nasty behaviour. She's just another regular curious child who asks questions, pokes things, overestimates her physical abilities and by the end of the day, constantly learning the world. Azriel has yet to see a habit of hers he considers impolite or unacceptable and knows fully well that his view of her is not as a parent.

But Winnie clings to his leg and hides her face with Rebel and if anyone were to look at them there would be no question in regards to the child who was the father and the stranger, and her body language would be dismissed as just another shy child hiding behind a person of trust.

But Azriel is well versed in the language and mindset of children and he's no dismissive onlooker. Winnie's hiding, and she isn't a shy child by a stretch.

He'd be lying if he said it doesn't rub him the wrong way. He looks questioningly at Graysen who crouches before his child.

"Hey, baby," his tone is soft, his eyes warm. "How are you?"

Winnie looks down simply at the cat in her hold. She nods once. Azriel's heart clenches. Graysen attempts a few more times to talk to her, and the thing that makes her perk up is when his attention lands on the cat in her arm and he leans back, perturbed.

“Webel!” Winnie notices and holds out the cat, her father leaping back and a sneer on his lips.

“Put it _down_ , Winnie, where did you pick it up?” he chastises, almost disgusted. “God, don’t wave it-”

Azriel stares. The girl’s forthcoming attitude rapidly diffuses like an untied balloon and she pulls Rebel back to her chest, looking away and inching towards Azriel.

“Not a cat person?” he manages to ask, helping Winnie out of the backpack on her back and onto the chair. Graysen shakes his head, giving Rebel one last wary glance before sitting down himself. Azriel has to stop himself from running his usual deductions on the man and to keep his thoughts to himself but a part of him cannot handle it- the part that pushed him all his life to seek answers to questions. He fixes Graysen with his unflinching gaze.

Graysen regards him for a few moments as he rests his chin on the laced bridge of his fingers, his eyes flicking over his face before slightly narrowing. “I remember you,” he says. “Feyre’s wedding. You were best man.”

Azriel tries to recall an image of the unassuming man from his memory but can’t; the whole time period was a blurry chaotic mess in his head. He nods once, and leans back in his seat and doesn’t offer to meet Graysen half-way in the small talk. Unfortunately for the man, Azriel’s one who’s comfortable in silence around others.

Graysen, apparently, cannot.

“I expected the other one when Elain said she put Winnie with her friend,” Graysen’s gaze is searching for the gem of the situation in Azriel’s closed off face. A truth he will not find hidden. “What’s his name… the army soldier.”

Azriel blinks slowly. “Marine. His name’s Cassian.”

“Yes… _him._ ”

A smile almost touches his lips. “You don’t like him,” Azriel notes, holding back his smile. Graysen has no qualms confirming that statement in the honest shake of his head as he takes a sip of water.

“He keeps trying to get me to sign up in his gym every time he sees me,” he shakes his head, brow furrowed. “He gets under my skin.”

“He calls it like he sees it,” Azriel answers, glancing at Winnie who is looking down at Rebel and petting her. He’s noted her frequent petting of Rebel’s soft fur, and though he doesn’t want to consider it he’d been offered the habit of stroking soft materials to sooth anxiety- something he couldn’t enjoy, what with his damaged hands, and he hates to think Winnie has the need to even turn to it. There are many things he’s noted in her behaviour that he doesn’t know if he’s in the appropriate position to tell Elain about.

The waitress comes with the menus. Azriel doesn’t show Winnie the menu assuming it’s a role Graysen assumes in showing his child the options she can choose from, but he glances up once as Graysen closes his own and his brows jump together to see Winnie sitting in her chair staring at the table quietly.

Her alien expressionless face strikes pity in Azriel’s heart so he leans towards her and flips to the sandwiches page, sliding the menu towards her.

“Hey, Win,” he says softly as her eyes latch onto the colours and that familiar life sparks in her eyes. “What do you want to eat?”

“What are you doing?” Graysen raises a brow.

“Giving her options, why aren’t you?” retorts Azriel. He directs his attention back to Winnie who points at the appealing tuna sandwich.

“She can’t choose,” he scoffs at Azriel’s antics. “She’s a kid.”

“She makes choices every second I’m with her,” he answers without looking up, turning a page to the pizza. “Pizza, how about that?”

In the end she decides on a cheeseburger that Graysen argues she shouldn’t have because she won’t finish and strawberry juice she refused to back down from. Azriel, not in the mood for food, orders an espresso and chicken steak.

It’s adamantly clear five minutes in that Graysen is one of the most mundane people Azriel’s had the fate to meet. He’s a Harvard Law graduate and did not fail to mention it about six times while discreetly bragging about his job as a lawyer at Nolan-Hardman firm-

“Daddy’s firm?” Azriel interrupts.

Graysen clamps his mouth shut. “What?”

“Daddy’s firm, isn’t it?” Azriel stretches out his legs and crosses one over the other, free arm folded over his middle. “Daddy’s money.”

Graysen flushes pink in the cold. “No-I don’t know what you’re-“

“Oh don’t feel insulted,” Azriel waves a hand. “I’m just noting. Gotta be Daddy’s influence that’s helping you this far, isn’t it? I was wondering how you’re a senior lawyer so quickly, you’re young for that success. Can’t have won that many cases yet, huh?”

Graysen looks like a goldfish with his bulging eyes and opening and shutting mouth so Azriel just rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so insulted, you’re not the type to have climbed from the ghetto. There’s no shame in it.”

Azriel’s appetite that day is a measly thing and the thought of eating his chicken makes him nauseous, so he sips his coffee while Graysen speaks, wisely avoiding more bragging in regards to himself, and occasionally helps Winnie eat her cheeseburger.

He keeps to himself all the retorts that come to mind to anything Graysen says, a promise to be civil the only thing making him remember his manners. But he doesn’t seem to manage to hold his tongue when it regards Winnie, or Elain.

One comment would be on Winnie’s eating habits as she steals fries off Azriel’s plate, and upon her doing so her father immediately chastises her, startling the fry she had her eye on from her fingers. Azriel was reclining in his seat, but the way she jumped makes him sit up abruptly and cast a scathing glare towards Graysen. His food had been sitting there slowly turning cold and occasionally having a bite of the chicken.

“Winnie, you don’t take other people’s food,” Graysen scolds the frozen girl staring wide eyed at him. “Finish your own,” he points at her plate where her burger lies unfinished. Graysen had told the waitress to bring Winnie’s sandwich without any sides to avoid the girl filling her stomach with anything other than her meal.

Azriel’s arm stretches out and his hand rubs her back. “It’s a fry,” he scowls at the man. “She just wanted some.”

“She has to learn not to-“

“Oh shove that horse shit down your throat,” snaps Azriel, stunning Graysen silent. “She wanted to eat fries, it’s fine. Fuck’s sake, it’s not a big deal. She’s hungry.”

“…She chose-“

“Here, bunny,” Azriel softens his tone, and pushes his plate towards the girl and pulls her chair closer to him. “It’s okay, you can have some.”

Her hesitance breaks a composure in him -too similar, too raw, too close. He doesn’t think he can ever deny a child any form of food, no matter the circumstances, it just hits too close to home. He smiles at her, and flicks one of the ponytails he had put her hair up in high on her head. He even grabs the ketchup and mayonnaise, dunking one fry in the ketchup before eating it and telling her to do the same.

Graysen sniffs, his lips turned down in obvious distaste for the kind of food she’s eating. “She shouldn’t be eating that junk,” he comments before sipping his lemon tea. “Elain feeds her garbage.”

He looks up sharply. “Elain’s doing her fucking best.”

An infuriating condescending look washes over Graysen’s face as he rolls his eyes, a scoffing smile on his lips. “Elain’s a mess.”

“There’s one thing I’m not clear on,” Azriel sits straight and leans forward, the sharpness to his tone and expression taking Graysen by surprise. “I don’t know the details of your divorce, but I fail to see how a the ex-wife of a man who drives a fucking Jaguar and rolls in Daddy’s money would have to work _two_ fucking jobs just to stay just about afloat and keep her daughter alive.”

Graysen glances away, and clears his throat.

“I mean if you’re so critical of how she raises the kid how come you’re never around? How come Elain can’t afford a babysitter? I mean she has to be doing something awfully wrong if she can’t manage the Child Support money _you_ –a senior lawyer at a firm- pay her.”

Bingo.

“I don’t,” answers Graysen quietly.

“Fucking excuse me?”

“I don’t,” he repeats, louder, looking him in the eyes. “I don’t pay her.”

“Why the flying fuck not?”

“Can you stop swearing in front of my kid-?”

“Oh she’ll hear worse than that if you don’t explain.”

Graysen shifts in his seat and tugs at the hems of his suit. He clears his throat. Stalling. Azriel’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We agreed on it, when we divorced. She’d get Winnie and the house, on the condition that I wouldn’t pay anything.”

“You weren’t there,” he adds quickly upon catching sight of the expression on Azriel’s face. “You don’t understand. It was all messy. Elain wanted nothing to do with me. She wanted a divorce as soon as possible but I didn’t and…”

“Why did you split?”

Graysen’s ears turn red. “Elain… Well we didn’t work out together, you know? Just didn’t fit. Elain pushed for it, wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

Azriel’s tense posture relaxes and he leans back in his seat. “Maybe you’re right and I don’t know, but you’re not in the position to critic Elain when you do fuckall for Winnie.”

Graysen frowns. “Now that’s unfair. I have her on weekends.”

Azriel scoffs. “You can’t hold even hold a conversation with her.”

Graysen laughs shortly. “She’s a baby. Come on, what can you talk to her about?”

“A lot.”

“Besides,” Graysen shakes his head with a smile. “She takes forever talking. Just on and on and on and it’s nothing sensible.”

A patronizing expression crosses his face. “I honestly pity Elain if you think five minutes is forever.”

Graysen’s smile slides right off his face.

* * *

_What did you do today?_

The question comes with a curious tone to it that gives him the distinct impression of an eager need for divulged information and a sharing of the joy that might have been kindled in her absence. 

He glances at Winnie's fair head, illuminated in the ever faintest hue of blue and feels a smile playing on his lips. She's nestled herself deep in his side, comfortably settled there and cushioned by the duvet and thin pillow that he's put behind her back against the wall. She seems so cosy in her sleep that he cannot fight against the tender feeling washing over him as he regards her warmly. Divine. That's what she feels like; a magic that he's never believed in a day of his life. 

Slowly with one hand, he briefly types out the reply in concise words. _Woke up at seven, enjoyed constructive conversations, played, went to the park. Met with Graysen for lunch. Went to a toy shop thanks to which I now know what she wants for Christmas. Bought Rebel a new bed and blanket. Played with Legos. Dinner. Now we're asleep._

Indeed, everyone is noticeably exhausted and tired out from today's activities. His little bundle of proud sunshine has foresaken her new bed and found one on his chest, close to her new friend who has a small hand frozen in her fur halfway through a pet. Rebel is a fluffy mass on his chest, content to be so close to both of them. 

He turns on the camera and manages to snap a picture of all of them in a brief flash that he immediately fears will wake up the girls. It doesn't. They're too exhausted. 

_Adorable❤️_ comes the reply from Elain a few minutes later. _I won't keep you up, then. Good night, Azriel._

_Goodnight, Elain._

Winnie inhales suddenly and stretches as he watches her movements transfixed and fearful that his texting has woken her up. She smacks her lips and audibly gulps, her face adjusting to accommodate a drinking action. He wonders what dreams she's having and if they're pleasant. By the cooing hum that comes a few moments later and her small legs kicking out, he supposes it is. Good. 

Though Azriel has spent much of his energy that day, in no way can he find sleep at ten o'clock. Once he's positive that the two are fast asleep, he carefully manoeuvres Rebel off him and sets her in Winnie's arms, fluffing the duvet and blanket when he stands to fill his absence. Winnie looks like she's going to wake at first, but then she snuggles Rebel and the blankets. 

Quietly, he tip-toes out of the room, leaving the door opened and the hallway light on. After clearing up the living room and kitchen, when he finds nothing to do he ends up drifting towards the smaller room across from his.

It's a small space for storage and everything he cannot find a place for. He's set up a desk and an office chair there and on the opposite wall some moving boxes filled with an assortment of items he hasn't unpacked are stacked, along with his suitcase and a lamp he had ordered for this room a year ago that he hasn't assembled and unpacked. Short curtains usually cover the window across the door but he's forgotten them opened. Once he's flicked the lights on and drawn the curtains closed he takes a seat in the chair and turns on the old computer.

The hiss of the chair as his weight sinks in and the computer running on were the only sounds until they join the background ambience; muffled neighbours, wind whistling through the faulty window, curtains breezing out then curving inwards to the window. He scrolls through his phone while the computer boots, checking his notifications from various social media platforms and liking some posts before he opens his Messenger app and takes note of the people online. 

Of the accounts with a green dot to their profile, the one he's most surprised to see is the one of his mother. 

His finger hovers over her icon, debating hitting her up and chatting again- it's been so long. So, so long. When is the last time he talked to her? 

His relationship with his mother is complicated, to say the least. For one, he doesn't know if he should refer to her that. If they're to be fair and honest with the labelling, Maji is the one who deserves the name, more so than the woman who abandoned him twice. 

Still, he's been taught not to blame her for being unable to take him in. _It's not her fault, darling_ , Maji always told him sweetly. _Some people aren't built for it. And that's okay. As long as you're not hurt._

Azriel's tried to reach out to her several times, as a teen and a new adult and had asked to learn Spanish just to be able to connect with her. Rhysand and Cassian flew out with him to Mexico once he felt he could muster the courage, and they'd been welcomed with open arms. Azriel's mother was ecstatic to see him, her family throwing them a party that lasted all night and ended up with knocking Rhys and Cass out from exhaustion.

Azriel sat with her that night outdoors, seated on outdoor plastic chairs that curved under his weight with mosquito bites on his legs and the hiss of insects buzzing around them as crickets croaked. He sat with her and talked, and tried to understand her life and her. She was more than forthcoming, her eyes were lit up with an adoration so strong in her eyes it was startling and heartwarming. Azriel truly thought he had found it: his true family, in the arms of this woman he didn't know.

The following morning he woke up and a painful pang clenched his chest, that was his clear-eyed impression. He felt uneasy in this foreign place filled with people he didn't know, a maze he had to navigate when he didn't know where North was. Maji had told him to expect the uneasiness and to take it easy with himself. _Be patient_ , she instructed. _With her and you_.

So he promised himself he would, but who was he kidding? He knew the truth, buried deep within his bones. Azriel didn't belong, at all. Least of all here, and a conversation with his stepdad proved that he would never belong with his mother; who had to bear him as a result of the most horrible of violations. 

Thinking about it gives him the worst kind of headache. He tries not to, but sometimes it's hard not to when you're ambushed with it at 10:24 PM- not early enough to postpone thinking about it and not late just yet to discredit the feelings and thoughts as a result of exhaustion. 

The Law of Attraction works in horrible ways because she too must be thinking about him: she messages him and his first instinct is to throw his phone at arm's length. 

_-Hello azriel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️_

He logs onto his computer and connects it to the internet, eye on his phone. A moment later he decides to Hell with it, and he replies. 

Several minutes later and an abundant amount of sweet terms of endearment and loving emojis, he offers to call her. She happily complies. 

He feels awkward and uncomfortable sitting there and doesn't know what to do with himself in the wait of her picking up ( _look like a busy adult,_ he tells himself, and arranges his appearance to mirror Dad's working appearance). He smiles at her when her video pops on his computer screen and is glad to find that it's genuine. 

Though her response to seeing him is to gasp in shock at the sight of him and well that's the formalities tossed out of the bag. 

" _¿Qué diablos te pasó?_ " she whispers, horrified, her eyes wide. It takes him a moment as his tongue tries to accommodate the sudden switch. 

"I got in a fight," he answers in Spanish, stumbling over his words. That's what frustrates him the most with sudden switches in languages with one person: the thought is there- be it English, French or Spanish but to get his tongue around the roll of each dialect so suddenly is what has him wavering. "I'm okay," he adds when she doesn't look less perturbed. "It's just a shoulder." 

A stream of angry curses are set loose from her tongue, he's not sure what all of them mean but he gets the idea. It faintly mirrors how Maji had raged when Rhys told her of his little scuffle with Macmillan and Azriel had some of his ears chewed out for it himself. 

"I'm okay," he chuckles. "Really." 

They talk, and like that; it's easy. It's easier with a distance between them physically and emotionally because now he has things that he can ask about out of politeness; her health, any events that happened, his stepdad, her family, what she's been doing. And she, in turn, can do the same. 

"Now tell me, is there any lady in your life? When am I to expect grandchildren?" 

Boom. Topic One (his wellbeing) and Two (his job) are done, now they're at Topic Three: his relationship status. 

He holds back the acidic retort that burns a hole in his tongue ( _you don't even want a son_ ) but he manages a small smile and a one-shouldered shrug. "Not really." 

"No? What about your friend, Mor?" 

Ah. That. He wishes they could have postponed that particular topic. His mother is of the firm belief that he and Mor were made for each other, which if she knew anything about him or Mor, she'd know that they are the last people on earth who should consider even a mortgage together. He wishes sometimes that she didn't call him two years ago when he was hanging out with Mor. 

"For the last time," he mutters, leaning forward in his chair to drink his water. "Mor's just a friend." 

She doesn't argue much with that and moves on seamlessly to Topic Four: other people's statuses. He has to give it to her: when she wants to hold a conversation, she does so easily. He doesn't listen much, just watches her speak and occasionally nods and says something of his own while trying to once again familiarise himself with her. 

Azriel has inherited the majority of his features from her- the inky black hair and bronze skin tone along with the hooded hazel eyes. They look similar physically, but the intangible bond that would tie them is nonexistent and they're only pretending at having one, hoping to fool themselves. He straightens his desk while she talks, spending most of his mental power into keeping up with her fast speech as he struggles to understand some of the slang that one can't find in textbooks and translators. 

He leans back in his chair and pulls one leg up, nodding along wordlessly. He leans his head against his fist, elbow propped up on the armrest. 

"Azriel," she takes a pause from telling him about a friend's son who's graduated from engineering. "I actually have something to tell you-"

"Azeel?" 

He sits up straight, turning his head towards the source of that sleepy angelic voice. His gaze lands on Winnie standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her hair mussed up all over the place. A cranky sob escapes her lips, knocking the wind from his lungs. 

"Winnie," he calls softly, extending his arm. "Come here, bunny. It's okay." 

It's the only permission she needs to come running towards him, throwing herself at him from her stand between his legs before he picks her up with a wince and she climbs onto his lap, curling her small figure much like Rebel does. She tucks her knees to her chest, snuggling the weight of her head in the crook of his neck and lays one small arm over the length of his chest in the closest she can to an embrace. 

“Are you okay?” He murmurs, holding his hand over her head. She nods and comes closer. “Bad dream?” 

“Mama,” she mumbles and he nods. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs in her hair and presses a kiss to it. “Do you want to sleep here or go back to Rebel?”

The tightening of her arm around him is enough, so he smooths his palm over her hair quietly. 

“Azriel?” His mother’s soft shocked tone snaps him from his stupor. 

“She’s my friend’s kid,” he answers. “I’m looking after her for the weekend.”

Winnie raises her head, and looks at the monitor. She blinks at his mother’s picture. 

“That’s my Mama,” he tells her. 

“No,” she responds immediately.

“She’s my Mama, not yours. This is Azeel’s Mama.” 

“Hello,” his mother says kindly in English. “What’s your name?”

Winnie stares at her, wide eyes taking in the screen before she blinks once. Azriel wipes some of the drool that had pooled at the corner of her mouth. “Do you want to tell her what’s your name?”

“Who dat?” 

“My Mama,” he says patiently. 

“Azriel is my baby boy,” she tells Winnie and he holds back a snort but it seems to bring the picture to Winnie closer. Her brow furrows and her eyebrows link.

“See, Felix has Aunty Fey-Fey, you have Mama, and this is mine,” he explains. 

She leans back, closer to him and scowls. “No,” she pouts, and wraps her arms around his neck. “Azeel for Winnie.” 

He holds back an amused smile as she hugs him, claiming her territory. “She’s my mother, Winnie.”

“Noooo,” she insists, and looks back at the amused woman in the screen. “Azeel Webel and Winnie.”

“Oh okay,” his mother replies, eyes twinkling. “Okay.”

“What did you want to tell me?” He says while trying to look over Winnie’s head who decides to secure her Azeel by means of a hug. 

“Oh, I... I wanted to tell you that I’m having a baby.”

He freezes. 

“What?” He breathes as Winnie fidgets in his arm. 

She nods. “I found out a few weeks ago. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“You- are you keeping it?” 

“Of course!” She stammers. “We want it. And.. I want -and Pedro agrees with me- you to be here. To know your sibling.” 

Multiple emotions run through him. He has the urge to sit up straight and scream about how he doesn’t even know her for him to know his sibling. He has the urge to cry. Get excited. A child- this can be the tie, the link, they need to click together. He can be there for the kid from the start, and know his sibling well and form a bond with his mother. This is it, their chance. 

He finds his lips forming a wide smile. “Congratulations. That’s amazing.”

“We want you to be here,” she leans forward. Winnie scoots from his lap and he lets her down. “Come over, let us be one family. Pedro agrees with me.”

“Pedro hates me,” Azriel snorts despite himself. 

“He doesn’t, sweetheart,” she shakes her head. “Come, live with us. We have a room you can stay at and if you don’t like it we know some apartments you can manage. What do you say?”

“I have a job here,” he barks a laugh. Why does it all feel empty? He doesn’t feel like talking anymore. “My friends, my pet, my home.”

“You can work here!” She argues. “And there are many cats in the streets. You can visit your friends during the holidays. _We_ are your family.”

His throat clogs up. He’s heard something similar to that before. 

_A trap_ , the words echo in his head. _This is a trap. A shiny, beautiful trap. Another_ _one. You won’t escape_. 

_I am your family._ Isn’t that what Charles used to say when Azriel was going to meet his friends? _You can always see them later._

Maybe he reacts too swiftly, makes a final decision in the moment but his defensive reaction is to not leave his comfort zone. This zone he’s finally managed to create. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, no. I can’t leave. My whole life is here. I only know you there. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Sweetheart I’m your mother, you don’t need anything else-“

_You should have thought that when you left me at the airport when I was nine!_

He wants to scream that and came close. The words are snatched back in his throat before they can be uttered. “No,” he says, voice thick and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. No.”

“How long are we going to stay like this?” She says sadly. “Talking to each other rarely on the computer? Baby we have to take a brave step, I know it’s scary-“

“You do it,” he says thickly, voice heavy. 

“What?”

“You come over. Let me fly you over, stay with me for a few weeks. We’ll spend time better this way,” he retorts. “I was the one to come last time as soon as I could. You come, try and understand my world.”

“Okay,” she says seriously, the decision in her words making him stop. She means it- she really means to connect with him. “I will.”

“No promises,” he says softly. “I’m not promising to move to Mexico. I’ll make a decision later.”

“Okay,” she repeats. “Deal.”

“Are you serious about this?”

“Completely. I realised that I cannot expand my family when I have the biggest piece missing from me. _I want you, Azriel_.”

A stone that had sunken in his heart when he was nine stirs, a heavy weight he didn’t know he was shouldering is promising to ease off. 

Wouldn’t that be nice? To be wanted by your mother, finally.

A smile plays his lips and a hope he doesn’t dare nurture blooms in his heart. “Okay,” he echoes, lips twitching. “Okay.”

Are things looking up for him?

“Azeel! Azeel wook!” 

He whirls around to see Winnie by the boxes and in her arms a skateboard as tall as her. A watery laugh escapes him at the sight of his old, old friend. Winnie waddles with the heavy board over to him and holds it out. He takes it and sets it on the ground, a surge of emotions clenching his heart as he sets his foot on it and it seems to have shrunken. It used to fit all four pair of their feet on it, now he doesn’t think he can put his foot before the other. 

His vision blurs and he coughs. “Oh that’s really old. Where did you get that?” 

Winnie runs to the boxes and points to one, she pulls out something else from it and he properly laughs at the sight of another old friend. 

His old blue helmet. 

“Let me see,” he beckons her towards him. He can cover the top of it with his hand. “Let’s put it on you,” he sets it on Winnie’s head, her grin broad and wide as he tries to buckle the straps together one handed and fails. It’s a bit big on her and skewers to the right. It’s adorable. 

“Most adorable skater girl in the world,” he taps her nose and earns a giggle. “I think there are some elbow guards and knee pads somewhere there.”

Winnie stands on the skateboard and holds her arms out. “Wook, Azeel!” 

“I see you,” nodding, he pats her shoulder and turns to his mother. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

“I’m not joking.”

He smiles. “Okay. Goodnight, I’ll see what this one is going to be up to.”


	14. Chapter 14

"Winter is my least favourite season," Rhys barks over the phone, annoyed. "I knocked my knee on a desk at the office and I swear I couldn't walk for a while."

Azriel focuses on tightening the straps of the knee guards on Winnie's legs, brow furrowed deep while she clutches his shoulders for added balance. He grunts, satisfied that they're on properly and sits back on his heels. Sniffing once, he picks up the elbow guards from the couch next to his phone and works on loosening the straps.

"Why don't you have it checked out?" he suggests, glancing at his screen. It's only him and Rhys in the group call, his brother's avatar portraying him and his wife with his son in his arms. "Talk to your doctor."

"Don't have the time, besides he’d just tell me to keep it warm. Which is hard in this damp awful weather."

"You fell on it too much," Azriel remembers as he slides the guard up Winnie's forearm. Rhys wasn't a smooth skater at the start, and as a kid, he'd been something of a clutz; always falling and knocking into things and frequently falling on his knees. It was an incident where, as high schoolers, they had the brilliant idea of surfing down the stairs in Mor's roller-skates that wounded Rhys permanently. He had gone first and ended up somersaulting right onto his knees, shattering one.

"Don't tell Mum but she's right, I did," Rhys sighs. "Never listened to her. What a twat."

"Hold on, bunny," murmurs Azriel when Winnie bends her arm early as he puts on the second guard.

"What are you doing?"

"You won't guess what Winnie found in my boxes," Azriel smiles, ensuring the straps are tight enough before he gets the handguards.

"Winnie? She's with you?"

"Yeah, Elain left her with me. Wanna say hi to Rhys, Winnie?"

"Ree-Ree?" she perks up and Azriel nods. He has to hold her by the neck of her sweater to stop her from leaping on the couch and barely manages to slide on the handguards. "Ree-Ree!" she calls excited, a beam on her lips.

"Hey, Princess! How're you today?"

"Ree-Ree, Azeel pway and Webel. And I take Azeel toys!" she rattles off.

"Come again, sweetheart?"

"See for yourself," Azriel reaches for his phone and turns on the camera, getting Winnie in the frame. Rhys laughs out loud in disbelief.

"Is that-?!"

"Yeah," grins Azriel. "She found it yesterday."

"God these are ancient! Where's the- aaaaah there it is. Tell me our signatures haven't worn off."

Azriel flips his board over, showing the initials carved into the wood. Rhys laughs.

"She wanted to play on it yesterday," he shows the girl decked out in his protective gear. "But I had to make her wait till I found the gear. Got flashbacks of you falling on your ass too many times. Elain would probably skin me if anything happened to her.

"That's adorable," his voice softens as Winnie takes the phone from Azriel to see Rhys. "I wonder where mine is, Felix might like it. Oh, I could take him out when the weather gets warm to the skating park."

"Weewiks?" inquires Winnie.

"Yes, I'll fetch him."

Azriel leans against the couch and nestles his head in his palm, fondly watching Winnie stare at the screen. His foot rolls the skateboard back and forth absentmindedly until Felix shows up on the screen in his pyjamas and a wide grin worn on his young face.

"Hey Winnie!" he greets.

"Hi Weewiks!"

Azriel hides his chuckle in the neck of his sweater, his nephew and young charge proving to be an adorable spectacle he cannot observe with a straight face.

"Uncle Az can hear you too," Rhys informs his son.

"Hey, Uncle Az!" Felix greets eagerly. "What's on your head, Winnie?"

"Azeel toy!"

"Let me see if I can find mine, stay here Feely," Rhys bids before vanishing. Azriel leaves the two kids to talk over the phone, content to curl in a ball on the floor and rest his head on the couch, sliding his eyes shut. He hasn't been getting enough sleep if he's honest with himself, both quantity and quality failing him, and so any moment for a shut-eye is welcome. Winnie refused the past two days to take naps and spent her neverending supply of drive playing with him, and Rebel when he is too tired.

What surprised him was Winnie's familiarity with technology; she handles his phone as if she knows exactly what she's doing. Earlier that day she was perturbed when she went through his phone and did not find what she was looking for. It took him a good five minutes to understand that 'Snapchat!' meant she wanted the very social media app and so to appeal her, he had to install and create an account.

But the girl took an endless amount of selfies with all the filters available on the app and Azriel would be a filthy liar if he claimed that he did not sit with her and join in on the photos and took joy in the screeches of delight from her at any funny filter. Not to mention that earlier that day they sat at his computer and played online games together with the old consoles Azriel dug out of the boxes, revisiting childhood memories with Crash Bandicoot that Winnie positively loved.

"Hey, Feely, what are you doing on Daddy's phone? You know you're not allowed on it."

Azriel raises his head at the sound of Feyre's voice, Winnie recognising it too. "Fey-Fey!"

"Winnie?"

"Daddy was talking to Uncle Az and he went to get something," Felix reports.

"Where's Uncle Az?"

"Here," he hums, hauling himself on the couch next to Winnie to see Feyre and Felix on the screen, in their living room. "Hey."

An amused smile widens her lips. "You look dead. Told you my niece is not for the faint of heart. What's she wearing? Where's Rhys?"

He snorts before explaining. Taking the phone from Winnie, he shooes the girl away to play on the skateboard something she gladly does now she's allowed. The long hallway of his apartment is an ideal place to play on the board, being long and uncarpeted. He's only worried about the noise and scratching the floors but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

"I'm gonna kill him if he messes up the boxes in storage," Feyre groans, rubbing her forehead with a bony hand. Exhaustion circles her eyes, sunken deep into her skin and her facial features ever so prominent. Azriel feels sorry for her and her current state. If there was anyone in their circle of friends and family that shared Azriel's tastes it was Feyre who bonded with him early on over different cuisines. His own past experiences are brought up clearly in his mind whenever Feyre's stomach has another of its episodes, remembering all too clearly how sick he had been as a child. She hasn't been able to paint, either, the fumes of the paints and solvents an added toxicity she does not need.

Her eyes remain bright and cheerful, though, and that's the silver lining he takes comfort in. There are few people with her spirit, even when her clothes no longer fit her anymore and she becomes physically weak. Rhys does his job of looking after her spectacularly well, his brother being the most loving and devoted husband Azriel's ever known. He's sure that's helped her.

"He hasn't been bothering you, has he?" He gets to his feet to watch Winnie skate down the hallway, Rebel striding by her side. “You know I’ll straighten him out for you. I might not do it as well as Cass does, but I scare him.”

"No he's lovely," she smiles, skin wrinkling around her eyes. It relieves him to see it as he knows it to be. “He’s been an angel.”

Azriel came to know Feyre thanks to his occupation. It had been him whom Rhys turned to for a favour to help out the young girl who wanted out from the shady life. Feyre wanted to come clean and Azriel was able to provide her with the protection she needed to start anew. She told them everything she knew about her friends in their organisation, Black Swan, and her input had been invaluable in dismantling it. Once Azriel had all he needed, Rhys took over the prosecution business and in turn, Feyre's ex-fiance and gang leader Tamlin Monrose had seen the inside of a cell in Blackthorn Prison.

Normally Azriel doesn’t mix his personal life with his professional one and if it weren’t for Rhysand falling for the artist, Azriel’s sure he wouldn’t have known her more than he had. From what little he has been told, Rhysand had met her before she decided to leave, and had pushed her towards it. Azriel doesn’t know the details, mostly because Rhys kept a tight lip about her and Feyre isn’t in the habit of talking about herself. What he does know is that Rhys smiled more because of her, and he laughed, and he was himself once more and that when Feyre was around, Rhysand was an unwavering force to be reckoned with. That Feyre brought Rhys joy and little trouble was all Azriel needed.

“What are you up to?”

“Well,” she hums as Felix burrows himself in her lap and snuggles in her arms. She smooths his hair and presses a kiss to his head. “I tried to make caramel popcorn.”

“I’m going on a brave hunch and assuming maybe it isn't that all consumable.”

Her nose wrinkles as she smiles. “At least I get C for effort, right?”

He purses his lips. "Feyre to get a C you need to pass..."

She laughs. "Rude."

“Where’s Alis? Why's she letting you poison my brother and his son?”

“Oh I gave her the weekend off,” she explains about her housekeeper. “She's done so much for us I thought she deserved time for herself and nephews."

He nods, glancing at Winnie scooting herself difficultly with one leg. He makes her put her foot on the board and nudges it, the board rolling smoothly down the hallway and her laughter bouncing off the wall.

"Gain! Again!"

Grinning he walks to the front door and does it again, sending her down the hallway. Her giggles rise loud as Rebel runs next to her and she holds out her arms to the sides, thrilled with the ecstatic feeling.

"Azeel again!"

"Do it yourself," he leans against the arch opening of the living room. "Come on, put your foot on the floor and push."

Her small mouth twists in concentration as she tries, one hand pressed to the wall for support as she pushes herself.

"How're things?" Feyre asks. "You and Elain?"

"What about us?" He looks back at the screen.

Feyre crooks one knowing eyebrow high. "Come on. What's the status? Is it complicated?"

"Not really," he muses, glancing at Winnie who stumbles off the board. "It's okay," he assures her. "Try again. I mean I like her, I think she likes me. I think I'm on a trial stage, you know?"

"Elain likes to be careful in her choices," Feyre nods. "And especially after that dick Graysen, she's even warier."

"He said they didn't work out. How bad could it be for her to be wary after him? He seemed... Moderately decent. A good partner if he wanted. Shit person, though."

Feyre snorts. "He said that? Right yes, as-fucking-if. Elain was going to give him the world."

Azriel rolls his gaze away. He knows Feyre's bursting for him to just ask. "He said she wanted the divorce, though."

She nods. "Yep."

He glances at her. "Stop giving me bread crumbs."

A guilty smile spreads on her lips. "I wanna spill, really. But..."

"You don't think Elain would appreciate it."

"It's nothing awful," she twists her lips to the side. "Maybe for Elain. It's not like they had a bad relationship, it's just..."

"You don't think she's over it," he says lightly but dread has found a hook to anchor onto in his heart and it brings it down.

"Oh no, she got over it a week after- after.. she got over it quickly. Elain's not the type to hold onto shitty people, you know? She cut him from her life like that. If it weren't for Winnie, she'd never see him again."

That doesn't sound like the parts Elain vulnerably revealed to him. He wonders if Feyre's lying to him, but she looks earnest. The reality clicks in an "oh" moment.

She doesn't know.

"What I don't understand is why he's not paying Child Support. What kind of lawyer agrees to that? How could Elain?"

His words ignite anger in the icy hues of her eyes. "Oh, that's his dad, Nolan. Nastiest piece of shit you can ever meet. He's a cutthroat lawyer, he's the one who negotiated the divorce. He didn't like Elain one bit. He kept giving Graysen shit for his relationship with her. Nesta was going to gouge his eyes out when he tore into Elain."

Ah. "Daddy issues, then," Azriel nods. "That explains it."

"What?" Feyre splutters a laugh. "Are you serious?"

A coy smile twitches his lips. "No point talking about the man behind his back-"

"Excuse me, you don't roll gossip away from me! Need I remind you it's my hobby-?"

"Darling, we agreed not to snoop on my phone; you'll find my mistress."

Her head whips around, eyes landing on Rhys. Her lips curl into a sharp smile. "Too late, baby. We're eloping together."

"Stop talking to my mistress, darling. It makes me feel awkward."

"Oh, how considerate of you to feel awkward. What's that with you? A gift for her?"

"I already have my own skateboard, thank you," Azriel pipes up. "Keep me out of this."

Winnie knocks the corner of the board into the wall and he winces.

A knock on the door brings Winnie's ecstatic bliss to an end as Azriel's neighbour comes inquiring after the source of the racket at such a late hour. He apologizes and promises no more noise before herding Winnie to have a shower and turning in for the night.

The lack of a bath seems to upset her so he makes up for it with music and soapy hairdos and singing along to her favourite Disney songs. It's a challenge to wash a two-year-old with one arm of free motion and the other restricted but he thinks that he manages fairly well given his circumstances. He's going to hopefully be out of the cast soon, if his appointment at the doctor goes well.

After combing her damp hair and wrapping her in a towel like a burrito, he ushers her to his room so he can get her dressed in her green dinosaur pyjamas.

Just as he fetches her clothes from her bag, another knock on the door interrupts him. They must have really disturbed the neighbours earlier. He tells her to sit on the bed while he answers the door.

"Yeah sorry about the no-"

It's not his neighbours.

He did not survive in the police force this long by having poor reflexes; he automatically shuts the door but a foot shoved in the doorway with a "wait!" stops it from locking. He opens it, and swings it shut with all the force he can muster and finds satisfaction in the remark of pain that follows.

" _Merde_! Azriel please-!"

Azriel swings the door open suddenly and steps out, eyes blazing, heart racing. Charles takes a step back, holding up his hands to show he means peace.

"How did you find me?" Azriel murmurs dangerously low. Charles holds his ground.

"Azriel please just listen to me."

"What?" Azriel sharply replies. "What is it you so want to fucking tell me? I have nothing to say to you. You mean nothing to me-"

"Just listen," pleads Charles softly. "You're in danger."

"Newsflash, asshole: I'm Not Surprised-"

"I'm serious! That four million bounty over your head isn't the only one you should fear."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Azriel nearly spits. "You know I'm surprised you haven't claimed it yet. You'd do alot with four million. How come you haven't sold me out?"

Hurt flashes in his eyes. Azriel doesn't care; he's long since desensitized himself to anything relating to Charles.

"You mean more to me," he says, dissapointed, as if Azriel hurts him by not knowing. "You mean so much more. I'd never let you in harm's way, Azriel. That's why I'm here."

Azriel steps back. In truth, he's a liar. To himself most of all. He claims he has washed his hands clean of Charles but he knows himself, knows that he'll remain on his mind for weeks, twisting his heart and poisoning him with guilt. The distractions of his life are what stop his from succumbing to them.

"I mean The King's fed up with the attempts to dismantle the Heptad."

Azriel halts.

"Yes," Charles nods, reading Azriel's body language. "From what I understand, you had only been helping him weed out the weakest. Now that you're targeting what hurts, he's not happy."

Azriel looks away. It's nothing he has not expected or put in his calculations.

"Azriel," Charles says firmly. "Back off."

A dry humourless laugh escapes his throat. "Or what? Are you threatening me now?"

Charles steps closer. Azriel takes another one back. "I'm saying not to meddle in the changes happening in the Heptad. Leave it, Azriel. Your foolish dream. You're only condemning yourself."

"I don't take life lessons from a hitman," Azriel bitterly responds.

"Please. Just leave this all. This awful job, your foolish dream, this life in shambles you lead. Let's go back to how it was, please. You were safe with me, Azriel. You know it in your bones. Come back, let's dissapear, start anew somewhere else, I've been saving for it. Who else do you have but me, your kin?"

A headache builds in his head as he turns away from Charles, rubbing his face furiously. Why does he feel like he’s being tugged in so many directions? It feels like everywhere he goes someone is trying to pull him somewhere. He longs for the moment where he finally just exists, cut off, free.

“Azriel,” Charles says in a fed up broken and tired tone. “Enough of this, please. I understand why you want to prove yourself, but you’ve never had to do so for me. I know you. Let’s be done with this.”

Azriel crouches down, pressing his face into his hand and screwing his eyes shut. Breathe, he tells himself. Calm down.

Charles takes a small step closer to Azriel and crouches down too. His face is warm and tired, but a small encouraging smile is on his lips. Azriel hates the sense it makes to him, hates that Charles sees himself as the knowledgeable of the pair. That might have been true once, but Azriel’s not the same man that left his brother’s apartment in Hewn. He’s changed.

Hasn't he?

“There’s a war breaking out between the seven,” says Charles quietly. “You don’t want to be caught in the storm. Trust me, Azriel. I’ve had enough work making sure no one identifies you. I’m tired, let’s just be done with this. There’s nothing for us here.”

“What war?” Croaks Azriel. Charles sighs.

“You know perfectly well Beron’s condition is upsetting the balance. Eyes are looking to his position, weighing the risks. Someone will make a move soon and set fire to the gas station.”

Azriel rubs his forehead. “You know who, don’t you?”

Charles’s worried brow answers enough. “What does it matter?”

“Who sent you, Charles?”

“I can’t tell you. But whoever did doesn’t want to ask kindly. I’m doing this of my own volition.”

Azriel’s head starts pounding.

“This is it, Azriel,” Charles voices softly. “The silence before the storm. This is our chance to leave before we both condemn ourselves.”

Azriel stands straight and Charles soon follows. “I can’t,” he says finally. “I won’t.”

“Az...” he shakes his head once. “Don’t do this.”

Azriel looks away from the face of his messed up childhood. “I have to.”

“Azeel?”

The pair of them whirl around, eyes landing on Winnie standing in the hallway with the towel wrapped around her. Charles’s eyes widen.

“Is this...” he whirls towards Azriel, eyes blown wide and lips parted. “Are you a-?”

“No,” Azriel steps back, shaking his head as he stand between them, blocking Charles’ view of Winnie. “She’s just a friend’s kid. I’m watching her for the weekend.”

His brother’s eyebrows knit together. “Elain Archeron?”

Her name on his lips makes his back straighten and his tone to sharpen. “Why?” He snaps, regaining his vigour.

Charles blinks. “They’re why you won’t come with me,” he notes simply.

“What do you know about Elain?”

“I thought you were just friends,” murmurs Charles, eyes downcast. “But... You’re not, are you?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Azriel don’t be a fool. Don’t. Be. A. Fool.”

His eyes harden as he clenches his hand in a fist. “Leave, Charles.”

“Azriel-“

“Leave. Now,” his tone is emotionless and quiet, it carries in the silent hallway. “The next time I see you I’ll put bullets in you.”

Something breaks in Charles’s face, an emotion crumbling in his eyes that shutters Azriel’s heart but he clenches his hand tighter and steels his heart. Without another word he turns on his heel and disappears through the fire escape stairs.

Azriel takes a second to stand there, his throat clogging up and his heart struggling to beat normally, before he sniffs and goes inside, shutting the door gently behind him.

"Come on, Winnie," he says quietly, his eyes landing on the scars on his hands and the tattoos circling his wrist and trailing down his palm and fingers.

Her hand emerges from the slit of the towel and it lands on his thigh. "Azeel," her voice is soft and his mispronounced name holding much more weight than it had ever before. "Iss okay."

Tears burn his eyes as he forces a smile on his face. He pats her damp hair. "Let's get you dressed and watch Tom and Jerry, okay?"

Winnie's small fingers wrap around a few of his own. "Okay," she echoes.

* * *

Elain comes back from Nesta’s place a refreshed woman.

It was a delightful weekend. Elain can’t remember the last time she had any day off for herself and seeing Nesta is always a treat. Cassian spent the time with his friends from the army and joined the two sisters for a dinner on Saturday night at a lovely restaurant where it was spent with him and Nesta rapidly exchanging fire and Elain being the buffer between the two. In contrast to hostile dinners that Elain has had to manage in her life, there was no venom in their spits. On the contrary, Cassian succeeded in making Nesta smile and spent five long minutes staring quietly at her for it.

It was nice, walking the streets at night with her arms linked with her sister and friend and feeling like Elain. Just a woman in her mid-twenties, enjoying the weekend with her loved ones and shoulders free of responsibility. She had even went out without her purse, just her credit card and phone stuffed in the pocket of her jacket and the freedom of no baggage was an incandescent thing of poetry.

Nesta caught her smiling at the selfie of Azriel, Winnie and Rebel which Elain set as her home page’s wallpaper. Her sister asked about Azriel, knowing fully well that to leave Winnie behind with him warranted him being more than just a friend. So Elain explained.

Nesta was rightfully hesitant, but Elain showed her their conversations and told her everything she knew about the man. Her sister softened after she was told of how much he cared for her goddaughter and how much Winnie loved him in return. But Nesta gave Elain a final parting warning before she and Cassian made the long ride home.

“Ambitious men are pleasant to love and admire,” she murmured, hugging Elain. “But they’re impossible to be loved by in return. Make sure you’re his priority before you commit to anything with him.”

The warning is a reminder Elain bears all too well from experience. She can claim that she’s learned her lesson with Graysen, but being careful never hurt. She doesn’t think she can bear to have her heart broken ever again.

She makes a promise to herself never to compare the two men, but it’s hard. It’s especially hard not to note the contrast between when she comes to pick Winnie up from either men. In both cases Winnie’s running towards her, the difference is the presence of her tinkering laughter and her golden smile and it’s not a question with whom they’re present. Azriel gives her back her daughter like she left her, even substantially better. Graysen gives her back her daughter miserable and eager to be home.

Which, even if she’s used to it, she’s still stunned by Winnie’s joy around the man. There’s magic at work that he’s responsible for. Not even at her aunt and uncle’s house has Winnie shown such delight. Elain has lost count of the times she walked home to see Azriel doing one thing or the other that has Winnie’s side in stitches. She walked in on them once, Azriel giving her a bubble bath, and they were mixing potions together in Winnie’s kitchen toy set. Their potions being Elain’s body lotions and shower gels. She felt dizzy at the sight of her beloved products being ruined, but they were expired and Azriel showed up the next day with a brand new set for her.

Sometimes he puts her to bed as Elain gets comfortable in her clothes, an impressive feat of its own to put Winnie to bed so early. But the exhausted girl is already snoring in his arm and lap before he reaches the middle of the story book, and she’s long gone in the land of the sleep when he tucks her in. There’s a softness in his expression when Winnie is involved that Elain has never seen on the face of a man before, one so precious and loving it nearly moves Elain to tears.

Elain picks up her child from Azriel’s apartment on Sunday and it’s like she’s picked up a new child. Elain feels the same as her refreshed child. Born anew. At ease.

Winnie yammers on and on about the things she and Azeel did, the places they went, the things they’ve seen. Elain knows what she’s talking about because the documenting pictures are in her phone; he took Winnie to a park where apparently her daughter ran until she nearly wore away the soles of her shoes, then a shopping centre where he purchased a little figurine of Olaf the Snowman for her and a skating park. Elain’s immensely grateful and doesn’t know how to repay him.

She starts by accompanying him to his doctor’s appointment.

The doctor's clinic is a quiet place of murmured voices and the occasional shuffling of magazine pages, children expressing ailments by means of whiney moans and chest-rattling coughs. Elain has never liked hospitals or waiting rooms, seeing as the reasons for being there are when Winnie falls ill and such occasions are harrowing and upsetting Elain rather not remember them at all.

The girl herself is perched on Azriel's knee, giggling as he jolts her up and down, her holding onto his extended arm to keep her upright. "Giddy, horsey!" She keeps giggling. Azriel complies with an amused grin.

"I thought your doctor's an osteologist?" Elain asks him quietly. He nods, meeting her gaze.

"There's another doctor here at the clinic, a paediatrician,” he explains the prevalence of children in the clinic. “Dr Thesan is mine."

"Oh," she nods and looks back down at her watch. She's only just arrived from the school, an hour of her break remaining. Elain snuggles into her coat, tucking her nose and lips into the collar of her sweater, eyelids lowering halfway.

"Are you ok?" Azriel leans closer, concerned. Close enough to catch a whiff of his handsome cologne.

"Mhm, just tired. And cold."

"Here," he tugs at his scarf, undoing the numerous knots Winnie has passed the time doing.

"It's oka-"

He loops it around her neck eitherway and damn does it smell so good and is so warm. Elain feels the warmth spreading up her neck and to her very ears, seeping into her. She's wearing two layers under her coat and warm socks and the AC is blasting hot air but damn it, is November cold and her fingers icy. Elain inhales the smell of cologne and cedar and just the hint of Azriel himself in it, and a smile plays her lips.

"Thank you," she hums, glancing at him. The scarf leaves his neck exposed and while she looks at him sideways now, she thinks that she can see just the hint of a tattoo peeking out from the rim of his sweater. Without thinking about it, she inches closer to him on the joined seats they're waiting on and leans her head on his shoulder cushioned with his coat.

"Hard time at the school?" He inquires as he bounces Winnie up and down. Elain loops her arm through his elbow.

"Not exactly. I just had a hard time getting out of bed. It was so warm and cosy and the duvets soft-"

"Stop it, you'll actually make me cry."

Elain chuckles. "The woes of having to be up at 6 for school."

"You think that's rough, imagine having to do that in the middle of the night."

"Oh that's why I never drink anything before bed in the winter. No sir, not this cocooned hibernating bear."

Azriel's shoulder shakes with a chuckle. His side profile is nice, Elain catches herself thinking. Eyes trained on the giggling toddler, the hint of a private smile on his lips, the beginnings of facial hairs along his defined jaw. "And you have to drag yourself out of your pyjamas to go to work."

"Noooo," she moans, remembering her soft pair that she had to force herself out of, and buries her face in his coat.

"I have to get into a suit at 3am sometimes just because some drunk asshole killed another drunk dude in a bar. Do you know how hard it is? I'm sure it's a form of self-harm."

"And you have to leave your warm water bottle behind."

"And your soft cosy bed."

"Ugh, why can't we be kids forever?"

Azriel regards grinning Winnie fondly with a smile curving the corners of his lips. "Wouldn't that be something?"

Finally their wait is over when his name is called. Elain takes Winnie's hand as they walk into the examination room.

It's a large well-lit clean room of pristine floors and a window with the curtains drawn. A few chairs are set by the wall with modest decorations are the only remarkable landmarks. Azriel gets on the bed and the ease by which he did strikes a jealously in Elain of his long legs; she voices that to him and earns a teasing smirk on that handsome face.

The doctor walks in a moment later and greets Azriel warmly who introduces Elain and Winnie.

Dr. Thesan shakes Elain's hand and does so to Winnie when she sticks her hand out and puffs out her chest. 

"Well you're a proper little lady, Miss Winnie," he teases and the toddler positively inflates more with self-importance.

"We're working on being humble," Elain assures him, and he chuckles before turning to Azriel.

"Right. Let's see what damage you've done to your shoulder."

When Azriel sheds his numerous tops to present the cast, Winnie outright gasps and excitedly points her fingers at his back, exclaiming "Moona! Moona!"

Azriel's brow furrows as Thesan examines him. "I never understood what she meant by that."

But Elain does, seeing as she had a similar thought upon catching sight of the tattoos on his back. "She means Moana. The movie."

"My niece won't stop talking about that one," mutters Thesan. "Right, we'll have to take it off, do an X-Ray and change those bandages."

Winnie climbs down the chair and scurries over to Azriel, holding up her arms. Elain picks her up and sets her down next to him, Winnie's objective soon revealed as she peers closely at what she can see of the pattern of tattoos.

Taking off the cast reveals the rest of the tattoos, something Winnie rejoices in. Elain reminds herself to keep her eyes respectfully up on his face and to engage him in conversation that distracts him from the prodding and the pain, no matter how much she'd like to also examine the tattoos herself.

"Welcome!" Winnie tells her mother with a beam. Elain smiles at her and nods.

"What does she mean?"

"Maui, from Moana. The demigod who sang _You're Welcome_?" Azriel nods. "She thinks your tattoos are like his."

His lips form the small 'o' shape as it sinks in. "But they're not the same."

"It's the principle, I guess," Elain allows herself a peek at them. They’re an incredibly detailed line art on his back accompanied by additional thick lines and shapes that form a frame of one large picture extending all the way down his back and ending just above the waistline of his pants. She's not sure from her sideview and quick cursory of the details, but it’s extremely impressive and a notch more attractive. "You have a lot,” she notes, raking her gaze over his bare arms and spotting the ones on his bicep “When did you get them?"

He holds up his hands, relishing in the motion now granted to his left arm and showing off the black ink in his hands and on his bicep. Elain doesn’t know what she expected to see, but she’s still pleasantly surprised. "Teenager. The others sometime in my mid-twenties."

Her brow furrows. "How old are you?"

"Thirty," a light twinkles in his eyes. "Can I ask you the same?"

"Yeah, yeah sure I just turned 20 a few months ago," she lies, waving a hand.

"Well that's ancient."

She laughs. "Shut up!"

A charming smile presents on his lips while they wait for Thesan to examine his X-ray. "Do you have any?"

"Aside from my ex's birthday I kept writing on my wrist in a Sharpie to remember, then no."

He holds out his hand and she takes it, letting him tug her closer while Winnie loses her mind over the patterns on his back. "Do you want mine to write somewhere?" his tone drops and his eyes stray from her own for a moment before slowly meeting them again.

"Hmm," she tilts her head, and runs her fingers through his soft hair, her heart thumping at the close intimacy they had yet to experience. "No, No, I think I'll memorize it forever."

She smiles at him, sliding her fingers down the side of his face before she has the urge to press a kiss to his forehead. So she does and finds immense joy in the tightening of his fingers on her waist.

"Azeel, what's that?"

* * *

The Crime Investigation Department of Velaris State Police has its headquarters in the hub of the Windhaven. The building’s a large, five storied block of cement and glass and stone and compared to the other departments, it’s of relatively modern architecture of functionality over design. There the detectives work their shifts, the forensics team run their investigations and a morgue for the unfortunate victims. 

He has missed it, in some shrivelled part of his heart that he will never admit to having. Just as it holds overwhelming memories, his workplace also is a sort of strange corner of a home he has carved for himself in this wide daunting world. This, he muses as he nods at the security guards and drives his car to the parking lots, is where he can be what he has made of himself. The man everyone here knows is one Azriel has built of his own volition, and has not been influenced by any happenstance in his life. There’s freedom in being unknown, and he revels in it.

He’s back in his suit, cobalt blue necktie and gun holster that is his own armour that gives him strength. Azriel does love a good suit as much as he loves taking a break from them, and putting one on never fails to make him feel like he has his life together. He partially blames Maji for his interest in fashion and his formal attire; there has yet to be any occasion in his life where he and Rhys were not dressed to impress. Their appearances were always carefully put together.

The few people he crosses paths with offer him respectful nods and “Great to have you back”s. Mathilda at the front desk gives him an especially bright smile and a salted caramel square, knowing the exact path to his heart. She tells him that it’s been dreadful without him around and he believes her, knowing especially how understaffed they are in terms of competent detectives. He promises her a coffee date that he’s been promising since he’s been transferred here and she tells him she’ll hold him to that promise, like she always does.

It is his dominion; these halls and offices. This is where he does the things he’s best at, where he’s useful and needed and not rotting away in his apartment over hurts old and new. He should never have taken up Helion’s offer of taking paid leave; it’s been a spell for disaster so far, and yet on the other hand a strange new experience where Azriel is now spell bound to a toddler and her mother.

Who would have thought?

He forsakes the elevator, taking multiple steps at a time to the third floor that swallow up the distance in no time. Striding towards the glass doors of the white engraving _Detective Offices,_ he pushes it open, stepping inside and surveys the busy bustling room.

A large space spanning almost the length of the entire floor. Paired standard large desks coupled over the expanse, set up with computers and cluttered with papers, staplers, stationary and files and people at their stations. Regular cleaned floor tiles, large windows overlooking the property and blinds pulled back to let in the faint cold Monday daylight grace the room. A break room at one end where they seek refuge from their workloads. A hallway of private offices, and Helion’s large office at the end, his secretary at his desk typing away on his keyboard. 

“Morning, Bougainvillea,” bids a scrawny detective with wiry glasses as he passes, arms laden with files. “Sargent Day wants to talk to you.”

Helion always wants to talk to him, Azriel’s not interested in that just yet. “Morning, Pine. Is Nuala-?”

“Screaming rock bands at her desk?” Pine chuckles. “She’s going insane. Have fun dealing with her.”

A smile curves his lips before he takes the familiar trek across the floor, navigating between desks and busy people. Going down the hallway and peering through the offices, he halts at his own where the woman he’s looking for is at his desk, bobbing her head along to music he can’t hear through the closed door and scribbling away with a pen.

Imagine Dragons’s screaming _I’m So Sorry_ bombards his ears the moment he opens the door. Nuala immediately holds up a free hand without looking up from what she’s writing, head bent over her papers. He doesn’t think she would even hear him if he spoke, so he takes the time to slide open the windows to allow the crisp cold air inside and steps up to his black desk where a mess of papers and files litter the surface.

Seeing the untouched familiar sight of the stationary where they usually are, the same mismatched pens and stapler shoved in a cylindrical container, he’s yanked back in memory to the night he was called away from his desk to the crime scene caused by Macmillan. Azriel has yet to finish the appropriate documentation on his case, hasn’t even spoken to the press about it. He supposes Helion has. Usually he doesn’t leave his workplace messy, but his mindset while working that particular case allowed for him to do anything but.

As the song comes to an end, Nuala sets the pen down with an extravagant flourish of someone who’s finally finished a long session of work. Her lips immediately transform from the frown they had been in into a smile at the sight of him when she looks up, and she rises to give him a hug.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she chirps, sitting back down in his chair after giving him a squeeze. Azriel perches on the corner of his desk, looking around. “Happy to be back?”

“Surprisingly,” he confirms with a nod, picking up the pen she was writing with before locking eyes with her once more, taking in her appearance. He barks a laugh at her two braided pigtails and reaches out to flick one behind her shoulder. “This is one of Varian’s,” he waves the unique Japanese stationary under her nose. “Remember to tell him _you_ stole this when he comes breathing down my neck for it.”

She waves his hand away, then runs hers over her hair. “Like Hell I did, it was already here. Also, I just made these, aren’t they cute?” she shows off her side profiles, slapping her face with the braids in the process.

“You’ve scored my heart, Hoyle,” he mocks seriousness, dropping the pen and folding his hands in his lap. “What’re you doing here?”

Nuala sits straighter. Her leather jacket is slung over the back of his chair, a thick black turtle neck pulled over her small form. Her smile is tired, bright eyes framed with red lines and her hair untidy in its hairstyle.

“I finished your part of the paperwork for the cases I solved in your absence,” she jerks a chin at the stack of papers she had been writing on. “Just needs your signatures. I’ve done Varian’s too. You owe me.”

He picks one up, glancing quickly at the headline before putting it back down. “Why? Where is he?”

“His head’s been in the clouds the past month,” Nuala leans back in his chair, stretching her legs out before her under the desk. A loud wide yawn escapes her as she spreads her arms over her head. “God, I’m glad you’re back,” wearily she scrubs her face. “I haven’t been home in three days. Caffeine pills and crackers have been my diet, I’m going to snap.”

“His kid’s giving him a hard time?” Azriel folds his hands in his lap, tilting his head to the side. Nuala nods. “How is she? I haven’t had the chance to talk to him. What did they settle on for her name?”

Nuala smiles briefly. “Neveah. She’s healthy, and cute. As much as a two month old can be, anyway. He’s really wrapped around her small finger.”

Azriel knows the feeling. 

Which reminds him of something he has been meaning to ask her.

“Hey, I’ve got a-“

But a harsh wince scrunches Nuala’s face suddenly, cutting off the question forming on his lips. She leans forward and rests her forehead against his knee, winding her arms around her middle and letting loose a moan of pain.

“Nu?” Azriel lays his hand on her shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“Period,” she mumbles through tight lips. “I got it last nigh- _Ah, God it hurts._ ”

Azriel slides off the desk onto his feet, sliding out a drawer where he keeps his painkillers. Curses fall unheard from his lips when he discovers the empty bottles, curtesy of long nights and incessant migraines the last time he was here.

“I’ll fetch you-“

“Don’t bother,” she sits up, face marred with a grimace. “I took some Advil.”

He glances at his watch. “Go home, I’ll cover for you if there’s anything left. Why didn’t you use Lucien?”

“I did,” she nods uncomfortably. “But…only so much I can make him do, you know?”

“Go home,” he bids her softly, patting her back. “If Helion has a problem with you-“

She shakes her head, tightening the lock around her. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Go home, you monster,” he chuckles, sitting at his desk once more. “And you call me a workaholic.”

“I’m holding the front, there’s a difference,” she snaps. “I’d love to go home and sleep for a week but you won’t manage this on your own.”

“I’m slightly offended you think that way.”

Nuala huffs and shakes her head, looking up at him. “What were you saying before?”

He stares, thinking, for a moment before he remembers. “Oh. It’s nothing much, I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“You know that deduction thing we all have in common?”

Her sharply raised eyebrow begs clarification.

“You know,” he searches for the appropriate words. “How when you look at something or someone and you can read them? Deduce shit? Like you look at someone and you can tell if they’re left handed or not, shit like that?”

She nods.

“Does it ever just _fwoop,_ fuck off?”

“What?” she laughs, expression rapidly changing with surprise.

“Does it ever just turn off, just fucks off, like it was never there in the first place?”

Her eyebrows knit together. “You mean being distracted?”

“Yes-no, Fuck’s sake no that’s not it,” he sighs. “It just happens around _one_ person. Does it ever do that to you? You look at everything else and you think, oh there’s an ashtray here on the left side so there’s a left handed smoker in the house but they don’t smoke often because it’s more decorative than for everyday use but then you look at someone and you’re just-gobsm-quiet? Like your inner voice just fucks off and instead you’re making trivial notices?”

Nuala’s brow furrows deeply. “Give me an example. Who are you talking about?”

Azriel shifts against the desk. “So I’ve told you about Elain, right? I’ve been seeing her a lot and- _what_?”

A knowing smile has taken over Nuala’s nude lips and stretches them wide by the second until it’s a full-out shit-eating grin on her face. “Oh nothing. Go on.”

“No, no, tell me. You sound like you know exactly what I’m going to say.”

She shrugs. “It just sounds like you have a crush.”

Azriel regards her, brows knotting together. “Really?”

“Tell me more. What about Elain?”

“It’s just like I told you. Everything else I think normally, but then the minute I’m around her it’s like I’m a babbling idiot. I keep noting everything about her but not… not the way we do, you know? It’s not like with my friends. Not like when I had a crush on Mor either.”

Nuala bites her lip. “Mhm?”

He nods. “I don’t know what it is, I’m just always short on thought when it comes to her. I’m a mess. I thought it was just my sleep problems but it’s _always._ ”

“What do you notice?”

His face slowly gains colour as he remains silent. “…Nothing important. I’m just fucking mentally distracted around her, what do I do?”

“Oh, Az,” the pity in her voice makes pin pricks of panic pierce his hide and sit up worriedly. “Az you’re just infatuated.”

He holds up a denying finger, refuting logic about to fall from grace from his lips when it hits him:

Oh.

_Oh._

“Fuck,” he says softly, but as he does a smile takes over his lips and he blinks several times, like he’s just had an epiphany. He feels dumbstruck as he blinks and pushes his fringe from his face, pressing it against his head. He is, isn’t he? He really is in love. Nuala nods, resting her chin in one hand propped on the elbow on the armrest.

Azriel stares quietly at his knees, unable to fight the soft smile off his face. “Is this… this is what it feels like?”

Nuala shrugs. “I wouldn’t know,” she says, voice muffled behind her fingers. “But those are the common-most symptoms. I mean you have to _wait_ to be sure, obviously, don’t go telling her-“

“I’m not an idiot,” he cuts off with a quick scowl.

“No, just _her_ idiot,” Nuala leans forward. “That’s the point, you see? God, you’re in for a ride. This can only go two ways.”

“What?” he looks up quickly, panicked.

“Well, doofus, she’ll either reciprocate the sentiment and be _your_ idiot-“

“She’s not an idiot-“

“Everyone in love is an idiot,” Nuala waves him off. “She’ll either be your idiot or take this tender hesitant shy heart of yours and smash it into one thousand and one tiny pieces that will leave your palms forever bearing the splinters that you think you have taken out successfully until they keep pricking you every now and then. Only, your hands are your heart and it hurts way worse than that. And I’ll be here to laugh at you but bring ice cream and watch _Love, Actually_ together and hold you everytime you sob your poor broken heart out.”

Dread pools and gathers in his stomach. His mouth feels dry. He doesn’t want that. That sounds an awful way to end up. “That’s oddly specific for someone who wouldn’t know,” he says hoarsely.

“I read romance,” she says dismissively. “Point is, you’re in for a ride.”

“Elain’s not a heartbreaker,” Azriel says surely. “Right?” he adds.

Nuala laughs. “How on earth would I know? But,” she adds, an evil gleam in her eyes that Azriel misses. “It’s always the unexpected one who turn out to be so.”

“But… You know, I don’t think I’d mind.”

An amused expression washes over her face. “I can’t believe I’m living the day when this asshole finally has feelings for another human being. If you ask me what to get her for Valentine’s this is the end of our friendship.”

Azriel shakes his head. “I just meant that… It feels nice. Liking her. Lo-“

“ _Don’t say it, you’ll jinx it!”_

He clamps his mouth shut tightly, eyes wide.

“Don’t _ever_ think of saying it out loud early on!” she reprimands him sharply. “If you ever want this to go remotely well you keep that disgusting thought to yourself and you never voice it out to another human being unless it’s her. _Am I clear?!_ God damn it, don’t they not teach this? It’s _Romance 101.”_

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologises to the disturbed woman who looks like he’s scared her with a headless body (which so happens to be the thing she’s terrified of). “I didn’t know. I’m just saying, even if she breaks my heart, it’ll be nice… having… ad…mired her?”

Nuala nods approvingly and sits back. “Fucking noob,” she mutters and rubs her eyes.

Azriel sits quietly in his thoughts when Nuala winces again and rubs her middle.

“Go home, Nu, I’m serious-“

She shakes her head. “I need to talk to you,” Nuala blurts suddenly, locking her gaze on the desk. He frowns. “Before you see Helion…” she adds quietly, staring holes in the black surface, gnawing on her lip.

Azriel sits at the desk again, waiting. When she remains silent, a furrow between her eyebrows, he prompts her to speak. “What is it?”

She huffs sharply, bringing her knees up to her chest and including them in the embrace. “He told me not to mention it to anyone. Especially you but- _GOD I HATE BEING A WOMAN._ ”

“It can wait,” he assures her, uncomfortable seeing her squirm.

“I’ve been convincing myself to do this all night,” she mutters, screwing her eyes shut, seeming to rage war against herself. Anxiety rips through mercilessly at the thought of what might set her at such odds with herself, unused to see her uncertain this much. Azriel’s only known her to be self-assured and logical.

She sighs, peeling back her eyelids to fix him with a steady gaze. “I’m only saying this because we made a promise at the start.”

“Nu?”

“Do you remember? When we swore not to keep anything away from the others?”

Azriel nods, recalling all too well the four of them sitting in the meeting room in the upper floor after Helion disbanded the summit tackling the Heptad. He, Varian, Milo and Nuala lingered behind, sombrely drowning in their own thoughts now that their efforts in convincing the launch of such an operation have finally paid off, and each daunted by the looming thoughts of what was only to come next. Milo broke the heavy silence with his signature optimism and bright faith, bringing them together under the promise of sticking together.

“ _So long as we stick together, we’ll be all right. We swear right here and now never to hide anything from each other. Intentionally or not. Anything left unspoken can be the death of one of us.”_

And it was only a few years later that he bled out in Azriel’s arms while Nuala screamed for an ambulance and Varian chased the source of the gunshots that tore through him. Sometimes Azriel can still hear his ragged breaths, his broken sobs, and the gunshots. Some days, his sleeves and chest are blistering red and all his white shirts are stained perpetually with blood that he has to send all his shirts to the cleaners. And some days, Azriel watches headlights blink out in the street the way Milo’s own light vanished from his eyes.

“Yes,” he confirms, eyes downcast.

Nuala inhales sharply through her nose and blurts out the words before she can stop herself. “Hybern’s protected by the government, not the way we thought.”

It takes a moment to understand what she’s saying and when it does, he raises his eyebrows. “Ok? I don’t see what’s-“

“Government _and_ the military.”

“Ah. Ok, we knew that. Do you know the extent of the protection?”

“Oliver Ferguson, Daniel Ramirez, Clive Herrera-“

“Fuck me, those are-“

“Director of the C.I.A, Vice President of the FBI, and Presidential Candidate of Homeland Security respectively. _I know._ And they’re not the only ones. Azriel, and it’s not a case of bribes. You can’t bribe these people. He’s…” Nuala shakes her head, twisting her mouth displeased. “I don’t know the full picture, but he’s got something on them. He owns them, and everyone they influence.”

Stunned, he sits back and stares quietly.

“There’s something about him and the military,” she scratches the back of her neck, eyes straying to the corner and staring at something beyond the room. “It’s… there are too many ex-combat fighters in Anvil, and too many soldiers part of his SF. I’ve been looking into it but there are too many buried skeletons, I don’t know if they’re worth digging up. I do know something’s buried that happened with the military and I’m betting my life Hybern had his fingers in it, even Ferguson, Ramirez, Herrera and all the other big shots.”

Azriel bends his neck and studies the thin laces on his polished shoes. “It’s probably Amarantha, and her contacts.”

Nuala hums. “That’s going with our assumption that she’s an Ex-combat Marine. We don’t know anything about her, or Hybern. I have half a mind to rattle it out of Beron but I doubt he knows himself.”

He sighs.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” she says softly and he looks up. “Everything we’re doing, they can erase it like it never happened. Everything we have on anyone of the bastards, Azriel. Hybern just has to ask and we’re finished.”

Unexpectedly, Azriel recalls Charles’ warning. The King’s allowed them to prod at his organisation all along to exterminate the weak, and so they’ve only been helping him all along. Now that they’re picking at those they haven’t managed to incriminate yet, he seems to be putting his foot down.

“They can’t shut us down without questions being asked,” he rationalises, ignoring the humourless chuckle of disbelief that interrupts him. “He knows that, so he won’t turn to them unless it’s a last resort-“

“Azriel these people don’t need to answer questions,” snaps Nuala, irritated. “Do you hear me? The C fucking I.A.”

He looks up and points a finger at her. “Not if they don’t know. Besides, they’re not the agencies. They just influence them. Yes, they do have to answer questions, Nu. Maybe not ours, or reporters’, but their own competitors.”

“Who’s going to look into a couple of shot detectives? Who’d care, Az?”

“People do,” he nods earnestly. “I have insurances in place. I’m _not_ going out without a fight and if they’re putting bullets in me in my sleep then good fucking luck to them, I’m an insomniac with a paranoid alter ego- _I’d like to see them try._ ” 

Nuala’s eyes dim, mouth downturned at the corners, looking down. “Does nothing ever sometimes spell out _Quit This Bullshit_ for you?”

“You’re just tired, Nu-“

“I am,” she interrupts with several nods. “I am, but it doesn’t dispute the logic that we’re going to get ourselves killed for this, does it? And for what? Why bother?” her tone drops as she crosses her arms. “What difference would it make? Someone else will just come along and take the gangs’ place.”

“Where’s that unbreakable spirit I know?” he encourages softly, reaching out to tilt her chin up and lock their eyes together. Nuala’s eyes shutter with uncertainty. “Why does anyone bother to do anything, Nu? Why does anyone dream? If it doesn’t scare you, it’s not big enough.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she glances away. “That we have nothing to lose, I’ve been telling it to myself all night-“

Azriel shakes his head. “Your life’s the most important thing you have, Nu. You have everything to lose. And you’re doing this because it’s worth it, remember? For the kidnapped little kids forced into human trafficking. For them and everyone else these assholes are fucking dry, Nu. Because no one else dares to do it.”

She blinks at the desk.

“I get you’re scared-“ she scoffs. “-Don’t bullshit me. I am too. I couldn’t sleep a minute when I was undercover without my hand on my gun, and I still look over my shoulder for anyone coming after me. It’s okay.”

Nuala nods, not meeting his eyes. “But… I’m worried it’ll be for nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

She sits straight. “We’re operating on the firm basis that it’s all going to be valid in the end, when it all goes to court. But what if we make our big move, and no one picks up the work and all we’ve done was just bark and put ourselves in danger for nothing?”

“Rhys will prosecute,” says Azriel firmly. “The prosecution office will finish this for good as long as we do our jobs right.”

Doubt saturates her expression. “We’re resting it all on the shoulders of your brother, Az.”

“I talked to him, he will. He promised. And besides, when it all goes public, there’s no way to hush it up.”

Nuala doesn’t look convinced. “It’ll take something _big_ to make sure the situation rolls on its own on the right path.”

A brief knock on the door interrupts their conversation before it cracks open and a head of red dyed flaming hair peeks in. Azriel twists around, and his gaze lands on the detective-in-training under his instruction. Lucien’s eyes speak of the slight dread he feels and the expression of wrong-doing he’s committed but he carefully schools his expression.

“It’s good to have you back,” he greets with a neutral expression.

“You can drop the façade, don’t lie to my face” Azriel sighs as amusement spreads over Lucien’s dark brown skinned face. “I hope you haven’t been slacking off in my absence.”

“No,” Lucien says quickly. “Not at all.”

“You know that I get a daily report of your performance, right?”

Lucien winces. “No... Who snitched?”

“That’s the _least_ of your worries,” Azriel stresses as Lucien shifts on his feet looking uncomfortable. “It’s like I never taught you anything. Do you even listen to what I say or does it just go over your head?”

Lucien nods quickly. “Of course I do.”

“Obviously not or I won’t be having to deal with the case you fucked up spectacularly on your own,” Lucien looks away. “What in God’s name possessed you to accuse the woman of murdering her daughter? Lucien, what was going on in your head?”

An indignant look spreads over his face as he opens his mouth, resembling an offended seal remarkably. “She-!” he starts to squawk.

“Save it for later. What do you want?”

He didn’t seem to expect such a brief ear chewing because he hurriedly explains, changing the subject. “I just came to tell you Sargent Day wants to speak with you in his office.”

Azriel nods curtly, and Lucien steps out, bringing the door shut behind him. “Come see me in an hour,” he adds as he leaves.

“As I was going to say,” he turns to Nuala. “That big something you’re talking about is our incriminating indisputable evidence when we put Velaris’ finest in cuffs.”

Nuala scrunches up her nose. “That sounds weirdly erotic.”

“What can I say? Putting untouchable outlaws behind bars is kinda my kink,” he grins, sliding off the desk and holds out his hands to the side. “Don’t kink-shame me.”

Nuala’s laughter echoes in his ear as he leaves his office.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No thoughts  
> No prayers  
> Can bring back what's no longer there  
> The silent  
> Are damned  
> The body count is on your hands.  
> Turn off all the lights  
> Nobody make a sound."  
> Ashes to ashes  
> We all fall down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains blood, violence, shooting, jarring descriptions, child death.

Elain shivers in her sweater. 

She pulls the sleeves down over her knuckles and tugs the collar over her neck and presses her scarf to her chest, but still she shivers. Winter has yet to flaunt its fine glory and it's already promising the harshest of seasons and the bitterest of cold. The weather forecast says they haven't had a winter this cold in seventy years. Elain just hopes spring will come round soon because in the grand list of things, winter does not score high favourably on it. 

She cups her mug of hot tea and takes a generous sip. The teacher's lounge is usually well warmed and the ACs are turned on, she doesn't know why today is different. According to the staff members, there's been an unexpected error in the engine supplying electricity to the building and now they're running the school on the backup supply that should last them until the end of the day. A supply that can't manage multiple ACs; they've already been given instructions on what they're allowed to use for the day. Elain has to teach without the projector, but she'll make do with the classic way, though it'll be a challenge to keep her kids' attention. 

"Hey, babe," Clare pops in the teacher's lounge and beelines straight to the pot of hot coffee Elain took the time to make. Coach Scott had, as usual, drunk the last of it and deigned to make more per common courtesy. Clare would have fought him, again, for it, a conflict frequently reoccurring in the school. Elain decided to block that road while she could. "Damn, what is this cold, am I right?"

Elain hums, unable to spare any energy for speaking. She feels tired and sleepy but uncomfortable and it makes for an exhausting combination. She sips more of the tea. 

"I hope they fix it today," Clare murmurs, taking a seat next to Elain on the sofa, resting one knee over the other, keys clanking, perfume prevalent over the coffee smell. She sweeps her hair back over her head, holding it at the nape of her neck before regarding Elain and releases her hair. "How are you?"

Elain nods. "Good," she replies hoarsely then clears her throat. "Just cold."

"Oh you and me," sighs Clare, drinking her coffee. "How's your baby?"

Elain smiles. "Up to no good, as usual," only this morning Elain caught her emptying the contents of her dresser in her room and drawing on the walls with crayons. "She's nearly three. She's all grown up, wanting to be independent and like Mama."

A smile softens Clare's lips. "She's a darling. Have you started taking her to a preschool?" 

Elain shakes her head. "Still too young. I put her with my sister usually, but she's been sick for a while. I just came from taking her to her dad, he's taking her out for lunch until I'm done school."

Oh and did Graysen throw a hissy fit over the phone when Elain told him so. She knows he hates having his schedule adjusted and for things to not go exactly as he planned, but she really had no other choice: Winnie spent the morning at Cassian's gym and would have the rest of the day were it not for the fact that Cassian has classes to give and appointments to see to. Since Azriel went back to work, her life's taken the tailored path it used to before she met him and the mere difference laid in Elain and Winnie's additional cheer and the pings of his texts every now and then. 

Speaking of the devil, her phone vibrates briefly. A quick glance reveals the notification of his message.

_I'm not going to be leaving work soon today, I'm sorry. It's back to my regular all-time consuming hours so I can't see you girls today. Maybe on the weekend?_

She texts him back quickly: _I work weekends, remember?_

"So where have you been putting her if your sister's been sick?" Asks Clare. 

Despite herself, Elain smiles a little. "You know Rhysand Blackwood, right?" Clare rolls her eyes and nods, her facial expression screaming _obviously_. "Well I've put her with his brother, Azriel."

Clare arches one plucked eyebrow high up as a wicked smile stretches her lips. "Hel- _lo_ , Miss Archeron, what do we have here? I see you making connections with influential people in society. I see you, girl."

Elain laughs. "Azriel's a detective. Besides, Rhys married my sister."

Clare waves a hand. "As if I didn't know that. What I didn't know is that he has a brother. And a detective, too? I guess it'd make sense."

Shrugging, Elain drinks halfway through her drink. 

"So?"

"Huh?"

"So," Clare punctuates. "What's he like? How's he with your kid? What possessed you to put your kid with him? Spill your tea."

"I'd prefer to drink it," Elain does just that and hurriedly goes on when the exasperated look on Clare's face makes an appearance. "He's great. Really really great. Winnie just loves him to pieces, it's remarkable. She got attached to him on the spot and he loves her back. It was nice while he looked after her for me, I didn't have to worry about anything except my jobs."

Clare gently smiles. "Ok. And now?"

"Oh he's gone back to work. I'm having to juggle Winnie around again."

"Oh no, that's a shame. But tell me," she shifts in her seat, placing a hand on Elain's knee. "What about you? How do you feel?"

Elain blinks slowly, thinking about it. "He's... I like him. He's... I don't know what to say. His help was priceless, I'm beyond grateful. We sort of realised we might like each other so I guess we're figuring out if we do want to be together?" She shrugs. "I've never met anyone like him so I'm still learning about him and his person. I don't want to rush into anything at all because I really know next to nothing about him. And.."

Clare reads her easily. Clare has been her friend since they both were employed at the school, and they had known each other sparsely prior to that. Elain likes Clare, not only because she's similar to her, but because Clare's appearance is extremely deceiving. She's always the constant reminder for Elain that a person can be two contradictory things at the same time, and in Clare's case: many, many things. 

Understanding shines in her eyes. She nods simply. "After Graysen, you're scared."

Is she? "I don't... Not scared. Just... Yes. I am"

Clare leans against the sofa, elbow propped on the back of it and palm cradling her head. "You know, not all men are going to betray you. If this guy's a proper man, you shouldn't be worried."

Elain traces the rim of her mug with her thumbs. What kind of a man is Azriel? 

Before she can think of an answer, her lips have a mind of their own and they curve sweetly. Clare notices, then smiles herself and nods. "I think you know."

"He's just different," Elain's nose scrunches up as she gives a small shy shrug. "He's... Charming. Without meaning to. He treats Winnie remarkably. He has a cat, too. He's smart, and when you talk to him you get the feeling that he's actually listening to you, and he's a caring person. But he's also strange, I guess. Mysterious."

Clare raises an eyebrow. 

Elain recalls his few reluctant words about his childhood. "He has a story tucked away somewhere in him, I think it would really explain his character. I mean, he speaks French fluently, he's half Mexican, he's adopted by two English people and ended up being a detective in the States."

Her phone vibrates again. _Well I can look after Winnie on the weekend like always? See you when you're done?_

"One moment," Elain murmurs and picks up her phone, beginning a text. 

_I will warn you, it's exam season for the kids so I'll be up to my ears with work._

He replies almost immediately. _This sounds like the perfect opportunity for a work date. I, too, am up to my ears with crime. We can do work together and I can help you grade?_

Elain smiles. _Okay ☺️❤️_

_That heart has no business doing things to my own. Take that cute red thing away Elain now or I won't be responsible for my actions._

❤️❤️❤️ 

_You're going to regret this._

_Azriel, I'm craving the most unhealthy chocolate waffles with whipped cream and syrup. What have you done to me? I never crave this much sugar._

_I guess now I know what to bring on the weekend. I have a feeling you're a strawberry syrup girl, aren't you?_

_Spot on. How did you know?_

_I'm not a detective for nothing, sweetheart ;)_

The bell interrupts any reply she might have given, and thankfully at that: she doesn't think she could have come up with a suitable one. Her face feels incredibly warm all of a sudden and her scarf is a stifling hot thing around her neck. Clearing her throat, she stands up and meets Clare's gaze.

Who's holding back a laugh, a judgement extracted from the sight of her pursed lips and twinkling eyes. Elain is saved the trouble of explaining by mumbling cut off excuses about her class. Waving to Clare, she picks up her belongings and hurries out of the room, head ducked and sheltered by the curtain of her unbound hair. 

Azriel himself has no business making her feel this way. Or maybe he does and the amplitude is simply taking her by surprise. Every word that comes from him has Elain sitting on the edge of her seat, her heart hopping around in the home of her chest like an eager rabbit, and her throat dry. He commands her attention so effortlessly, without asking, that it is no wonder any attention returned from him has her spluttering and stuttering like a school girl once more. 

She slows her pace as she walks the dimly lit hallways, pressing a cool hand to her extremely warm face. Her ears tingle with the sensation. She needs to get a grip on herself. She's a mother and a school teacher, for crying out loud. Nothing Azriel can ever do romantic-wise will ever faze her; she's practically seen it all at the ripe old age of twenty five. 

_Get a grip, Elain_ , she scolds herself. Then she recalls that one time he sat with Winnie in his lap discussing the movie Zootopia animatedly and the infuriating smile grows on her face again. 

Chest inflated and with a skip in her step, she makes her way towards her classroom. Just as she's about to walk in, a plethora of her students already inside, a trio of a whirlwind rushes past her into the classroom 

"No running in the halls, children!" She calls after them as they come to a halt beside her desk, panting heavily and heaving for breath. Tracy flails, her legs unable to support her before she latches onto the desk for support. 

"I-I won," she wheezes, holding a weakly clenched hand in the air before she promptly drops to the floor. Mordred waves a denying hand as he gasps for breath, his whole little frame rising and falling. 

"I-I-I-" he tries to say, fighting his stutter and his short breath before he gives up all together and falls on his knees. Red haired Malcolm is silent on the floor as he lays on his back. 

"Kids," she begins sternly. "What have we said about running in the halls?"

A running pair of footsteps squeak on the polished floors, skidding to a halt. Pivoting on her heel, her gaze lands on Curtis who grins toothily back at her.

"Curtis," she raises an eyebrow. "No running. Do you want to get detention?"

"Sorry, Miss Archeron," he chirps, skipping into the class. "I saw the others running so I was worried I missed class."

"Take your seats," she instructs the kids who difficulty pick themselves off the floor and make their way to their chairs, murmuring between them about the winner of the race. Curtis however, strides over to Elain's desk as she fetches her markers. 

"Ma's going to get me the new PlayStation," he shares with a beam. "Because I did good on the test and my grades are getting better."

Elain smiles warmly at him. "That's wonderful news, Curtis. Keep up the good work and you'll only get more rewards. From both your mother and me."

Her little student grins up at her. "I'm gonna get the Batman game and play it _all day_."

She shoos him away. "It'll only get confiscated if your grades drop again. Now go to your seat. Today's a different type of lesson."

Her students are excited by the break in routine with the absence of the slideshows and animated figures and the loss of their tablets. They beg her to close the curtains and to only keep a dim light over her head for added atmosphere, refusing to abide until she lets them gather their seats in a circle around her while she regals them the magnificent tale of cellular breathing. 

She teaches them the legendary sentence that day, and makes them repeat it and write it in their notebooks. _The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell_. 

Halfway through her lesson, the few lights in the classroom suddenly shut down, sending the room in pitch black and eerie silence, the only light being the one coming through the windows covered by curtains. Elain bids Tracy to open them while she opens the door of the classroom and pokes her head out. 

The halls are dark, scattered light reflected off surfaces the only illumination. Andrew, the math teacher, whose class is next to hers also steps out with a frown. He meets Elain's gaze, a frown on his face. She shrugs. 

"Did the engine die out, you think?" She asks. 

"I'll go see, some idiot might have overworked it," he then shouts instructions at his rowdy class to keep quiet before he closes the door behind him, making his way down the hall. Elain steps back inside her own, shutting the door behind her. 

"Is it nap time?" Demands Tracy eagerly. "Please oh _please-_ "

"Sit down," Elain absent mindedly instructs, assessing the lighting and setting of the room. She turns her markers over in her hands, pondering on how to carry on her class successfully. The kids murmur between them, voices steadily rising the longer Elain stands before them in thought.

When she hears it: 

The pops. 

Oh _shit-_ this is a drill. Smacking a hand to her forehead, the kids fall silent at the jump in her posture as she silently gestures to the kids the sign they've had drilled into them. The kids who shoot to their feet at once, all to familiar with the instructions and routine. 

Elain rushes as quiet as she can to the door, hunching her back, pulling down the blind over the glass panel in the wood and turning the lock quickly. The students behind her run to their hiding places; under Elain's desk, behind overturned desks, some in the little crook in the wall right next to the door. Quiet, breaths held, shuddering inhalations of fear, unknowing that this is another drill. 

Bangs upon bangs upon bangs in the hallway, doors slammed open, pops repeatedly going off. Elain herself is pressed against the corner, holding some of the shaking kids to her chest, hands splayed over any inch of them she can bodily protect and provide comfort. 

She's holding Mordred to her, his breath shuddering and soft weeping sounds coming from him as another door is slammed open, making them all collectively jump. She holds him close, and Curtis at her side is clutching her elbow so tightly she's lost feeling of it. She wraps her arm around his quivering shoulders and brings him towards her. 

Her eyes find her kids, marking them all one by one and taking notice of them. They're all cowering, huddled together and clutching one another. Tracy has Iyad chocked in an embrace, her eyes skrewed shut as she ducks her head into his small chest. He's ashen faced, but determined as he clenches his jaw. She finds Sarah, pressed with other children against a crook in the wall, she's clutching her pink water bottle, eyes bright and teary. 

Another bang. Pops. 

Screams. 

It's an icy hand of dread at the nape of Elain's neck, trailing all the way down her back, threading fingers in her hair. Glass shatters. Curtis whimpers. She tightens her hold on him. 

A sudden warm dampness grows on her leg, and a glance at Mordred's tightly screwed face tells her all she needs to know. This is the last thing the boy who's grown up in an abusive household needs; a reminder, a living reminder of the near daily scenario he had to live. She brings him as close as she can, practically feeling his little heart thundering against his ribcage. 

"Miss Elain," Tracy whimpers, tears running down her face as the pops and slams come closer. 

What are they doing? Were this an actual shooter they're only behaving like obedient sitting ducks. Not for the first time, Elain has the familiar rage rise through her at the drills they have to go through, and the useless protocols put in place. 

"It's okay," she words silently against Mordred's dark curls. He shakes and shakes. Curtis sniffs. 

Other kids are cowering behind her, clutching her clothes for any semblance of comfort they can have. She hopes to give it to them as they live through a practiced routine. The kids never know if it's a drill or not, and she's lost count of all the times they've gone ashen faced because of it. Gotten sick of it.

Another door slams open. She flinches. That was the math class next door. 

Then, it is their turn. 

The first slam against the locked door is like a thundering storm, someone driving their foot into the knob. The kids hiding in the corner of it jump and whimper. A puddle trickles further into the classroom from their place. 

Mordred full on sobs now. 

Curtis holds onto her, short of breath, his eyes blown wide. 

A second slam, it'll only take a second one and the door will give. Elain's heart is roaring in her ears by now. _Please be over_ , she begs quietly. _For the kids' sake._

The door rebounds with a slam against the wall, the kids scream despite themselves. Elain looks and her heart near stops. 

The only word she can find is _monster._

A dark giant brute that has to duck when stepping into the classroom, a massive firearm in his arms, dark clothes and a mask on his face. A metal face, open mouth, red eyes. 

A lot of things happen at once: the door that slammed into the children throws them off balance, and they tumble to the ground, a fallen cascade of dominoes, and Sarah at the front topples forward, slipping over a puddle of urine; the monster reflectively points his firearm at her; Elain screams protest, shoving the children off her to surge over the toppled desk, the bang is loud now; a squirming struggling Sarah abruptly stops moving. 

The children scream as the girl's head smashes onto the floor, her limbs flailing oddly. Elain's on her feet, the workshop they took giving her ankles wings because she leaps towards it, the monster, jaw set and the firearm is cocked straight at her. She charges anyway. 

Several things happen too at once; Curtis is shouting after her, she's only two steps towards the shooter, another loud bang and she feels a small thud against her abdomen. She gives it no thought as she ducks low and runs straight at the shooter. Curtis has charged too, taking the shooter off guard and distracting them. They open fire, bullets ricocheting off surfaces, shattering glass, exploding in the wall, embedding in the smart board. 

Two steps away, the gun is pointing at her. Another shot. This time she feels the thud in her chest. She stumbles back, freezing in place as she catches sight of her clothes. 

The world is silent, fuzzy and the screams of her children are distant, the yells, the crunch of broken glass under her boots, her leg damp with urine, her sweater gaining a dark angry colour. 

"CURTIS!" 

Shot. Shot. Shot. Shot. Shot. Shot.

Elain has barely any time to register the little body that skids to a halt at her feet, skull shattered, chest punctured. Arm degenerated. It all feels like a terrible nightmare. 

Heavy asthmatic breathing coming through the metal face and the red eyes. Elain's eyes meet them as her expression falls, tears blurring her eyes. Her fingers are pooling with red, red, _red_ blood. 

_I'm so sorry baby,_ she thinks of her sunshine and can’t picture her. Her tears slide down her face. This is it. Her end. 

_I can protect the children._

Her foot rises as the weapon cocked at her does not fire bullets. Pauses. Dare she say, hesitates. The monster does not move. Elain drops her hands to the sides. She steps over the little body at her feet and leaps forward. 

A third bullet tears through her. Her foot slips on the fluids, and she flies back against an overturned desk, her back colliding with the edge and rendering daylight stars exploding in her vision. Her hand tries to grasp something, finding purchase in the desk before she loses coordination and she's hanging from the desk by her arm, body twisted onto the floor. Her back is screaming in pain. 

She heaves for breath, her fingers losing their strength, allowing her to slide completely on the filthy floor. Blood. There are steady streams of blood everywhere; her hands, her sleeves, on her face, in her hair. She feels it on her face.

Glass crunches under thick boots, footsteps sound, moving towards her. She has no recollection; only a view of the poorly lit ceiling, shadows lining the surface. Then the monster steps in her peripheral, looming tall over her, that face and those eyes. A frightful sob tears suddenly from her throat. Why is she crying? She isn't feeling anything. The sobs are uncontrollable. 

She's staring down the barrel of a gun. Slowly. Everything happens in the blink of an eye but it feels like it's taking ages. 

A loud bang. 

The monster lurches, whipping around, their firearm rising and going off; a thousand bullets a second. Elain's eyes flicker shut for a second and when they open again, they're gone. Just like that. 

A bad dream. 

Oh. 

She tries to stand up but she can't even move her limbs. Oh. No, no, no, no. What's happening? Where is she? What happened? Has she been shot?

There are sobs and shouts and a hustle. She can't hear any of it. Her ears are running. Her head's hurting sharply like a bitch. 

Her eyes slide shut.

They open again a while later and she's still where she is. Her vision is more blurry. She feels half in her body, like a terrible illness keeping her half coherent. 

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," someone is chanting. Then hands are on her. That someone sobs. Flaming red hair, she sees that, catching what little light from the shattered windows. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." 

She feels damp to the core. She can't move.

"Miss? Oh my God, stay with me. Please. Open your eyes. My name's Lucien Vanserra. The SWAT teams are sweeping the building. The ambulance just arrived. Please stay with me one second. For the love of all fucking precious in the world. Don't die on me. Please. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh God the kids, the _kids_ \- FOR FUCK'S SAKE SHE'S BLEEDING OUT COME QUICK-!"

Elain closes her eyes. 

* * *

For Azriel, when there is any semblance of normalcy and a routine to his work days, Tuesdays are the most manageable of the week days. Having mentally recharged over the weekend, Monday doesn't take much of all his resolve to power through, so going through Tuesday takes little to no effort from him.

On a good well-behaved day, Tuesday passes by fairly quickly, spent going over notes and overlooking new cases while trying to close old ones. Detective TV shows make him laugh sometimes if only because the narrative speaks of a detective spending their day out in the field, running after leads, going on impromptu field trips to meet with a person on a whim and rarely ever stays at their desk. 

He does understand the focus on the physical aspect of his job. There's little appeal to watching a person spend their day at their desk, menially going through reports and following a routine. Most people seek escapism from their reality and their own jobs. But it often leads to misconceptions, especially in cadets signing up to join the police force and becoming detectives. It's a shriveled kernel of joy he finds when he bursts their bubble. Nuala says he's sadistic, but he's of the firm opinion that it's satisfying to see the disappointment they all initially had as a response to their jobs featured clearly on cadets' faces. 

Still, the homicide division and his vendetta against the Heptad make for an enjoyable career and those few slow days in between serve as a crutch for when shit hits the fan, as it is very much prone to. 

This Tuesday consists of filling out reports, meeting with a victim's parents again to answer their questions and going over details of a crime, reading the forensics report that came in this morning. Helion welcomed him back to the job with a special new case: the Trudent murder.

Cold, the sky outside a monochromous palette of many shades of grey, Nuala sits at a desk, feet kicked up and reading out loud the scenario of the murder. He sits at the desk pushed against the one Nuala occupies, slouched and tugging at his hair, listening and looking for things they might have missed and staring out the window. 

There is something that nags him, like the urge to scratch an itch, that makes him consider they're looking at things the wrong way. Nuala doesn't see the point of his reasoning, but since the dead end they're stuck at refuses to subside with the previous scenario, she has no qualms with indulging him.

Varian stops by, standing over Nuala's shoulder and reading her notes. A deadpanned expression swims onto her face as she slowly looks up at him. 

"Want to sit in my lap?" 

He leans down until his head is level with her's, squinting at the words. "What in the world is that chicken scrabble?"

"Would you like me to read them out to you?" She sarcastically offers. 

"No just what's... What's that? Paras..ousley?"

"Parasousley," she mocks in a high pitched tone. "Purposefully you ass!"

"How on earth is that purposefully?!"

"Well they're MY notes aren't they?"

Azriel grins down at the desk surface. He has missed this, though he'll never admit it. Though their petty arguments do drill a hole in his head sometimes, it's often a welcome distraction and buffer. 

"Look here you daft witch that's not even English-"

"I can read it, can't I?!"

"Helion will chew you out for those notes-"

"I'm not giving it to him!"

Idiots. He is surrounded perpetually by idiots wherever he goes. It is wearying, heavy on his soul, dragging him down day by day until he can no longer go on and he must give up on life. Unless the burden is subsided and the sore eased. That division once was the sole territory of Rebel, but now the mere thought and sight of Elain and Winnie have joined it. 

He wonders how Winnie's doing today. Elain is supposed to drop her off at lunch with Graysen after spending the morning at Cassian's gym. He had bitten his tongue when he found out, not willing to incur or invite Elain's wrath and ire. At least the kid would have had fun with Cassian.

"I can't see why you're making me do this," huffs Nuala finally, flinging her notebook at him. His arm shoots up and snatches it from the air- reflexes not bad for an arm that's been immobilized in a cast for a while now. Varian perches on the desk Nuala occupies and she firmly fixes her gaze on Azriel. 

"We're looking at this from an expected point of view," he mutters, tracing the worn down rim of the notebook with the patch of skin on the back of his finger he can feel through. "A typical view. Think with me. A reclusively living couple and their dog are murdered, found by their devastated daughter who calls the police. The mother's shot in her bed. The father in his study. The dog is blown to pieces. How come?"

"Security alarm," Nuala replies immediately. "He'd bark non stop at an intruder and alert the parents."

Azriel looks at the picture of the dog. His skull has exploded all over the floor, brains scattered, bones shattered. The method he's been killed bugs him. "That's the reason the dog's dead, but why like this? One would suffice from that distance."

"Resentment?" Suggests Varian, folding his hands in his lap. Azriel passes him the photographs, clicking the pen in his hand. 

"That's presuming the murderer is not a stranger. We're thinking about a stranger. An intruder," Azriel rebukes. "To silence him, they'd need one bullet."

Nuala nibbles her lip, frowning deeply, peering at the photos in Varian's hands.

Azriel stares down at the image of the woman. Sitting in her bed, peaceful but for the look on her face. It doesn't seem like she has heard the intruder coming in through the back door or she would have moved. "What's the order of their deaths?"

"Dog, mother then father," Nuala replies, tossing her pen in the air and catching it. "Why?"

Azriel hums noncommittally. "We've established that the dad didn't hear any of the commotion because of the headphones he had on but what about the mother? She was in her bed, relaxing, she'd hear the bullets shot into her dog, especially with that proximity."

Nuala stills and both of his friends stare at him. "What are you thinking?"

"We need to change the scenario," Azriel gets to his feet. "I want to talk to the daughter."

"I already did," Varian tells him. "It's not her. Why?"

"Because I don't think the dog was the first to go," he walks over to the white board behind him, grabbing a marker. "The order of their deaths are wrong. The intruder comes in through the back door, shoots the mother once, in the head," he writes down her name. Varian blows off Nuala's head with a finger gun. She slumps against her chair. 

"Then the father," Azriel adds, bringing them to attention. "The dog hears the shots, starts barking. Then they get rid of him next."

"Wouldn't the dog go up the stairs? He was shot at the front door. "

"Not if he knew the intruder." 

"Run through this again," Nuala sits straight, sighing. "You think the daughter did it?" 

Azriel nods. "She kills her parents, the dog starts barking or doesn't. Either way, she shoots him too." 

"But like that?"

"Resentment," he echoes Varian's earlier words, but even as he says them he isn't entirely convinced. "She hated the dog, decides to take him out that way."

"Hate a dog more than her parents, which she murdered according to you?" Nuala raises a sceptic brow. "I mean, the woman wouldn't mind probably being brought back to the station but there's nothing-"

"Do you have any other idea?" 

The two fall silent. Varian chews his lips, leaning back on his palms and staring at a spot on the table. "Excluding the dog," he begins softly. "Your scenario is highly probable. Including the dog and the reasoning behind his death, it's ludicrous."

"Why?" Azriel flips the marker in his hands. 

"Because there's no need to kill him," his friend shakes his head. "It's not like he can tell or sell them out. The key's in the dog."

Azriel sets the marker down. "Let's talk to her again. I want to grill her on this."

A fought-back smile takes over Nuala's lips. Azriel interrogating suspects is the entertainment of the day, whenever it happens. The good cop, bad cop routine works with him always because he doesn't have any qualms about going all in, delicate wording be damned, something that usually scares measly criminals into spilling their sins, intentionally or not. "All right. We'll do it your way. If it doesn't work out, well we're going to go through the long list of people they could ever have known," she gets to her feet, pulling out her cell phone from her jeans. "I missed your work, anyway. Don't ever pull a stunt like that again." 

"I love you too," Azriel grins. "I'll make us coffee." 

She grumbles under her breath but strides off towards the department's secretary leaving them behind. Azriel sits on the desk next to Varian, closely regarding his friend's distant expression; he looks tired, full lips pursed together as he stares at a spot on the floor.

"You okay, man?" 

"Huh? Yeah," he straightens his back, running a dark hand over his tie. "Just spaced out."

"How's the baby?" 

"Still allergic to sleep," he admits, a hallow tortured expression diffusing across his face before he makes it disappear with a wide grin. "But damn, man, it's... best feeling in the whole entire world." 

Azriel smiles softly at the smile in Varian's eyes. "Yeah?" 

"Oh yeah," he nods. "Just... they're my girls, you know? My wife and kid. Nothing really comes close to being with them. Nevaeh does literally nothing and I'm already so damn soft for her. My family. My girls." 

Azriel nods. 

Varian glances at him. "I really wish it for you. Honestly. You'd love it to pieces." 

Azriel looks down at his knees, twisting his lips. "I don't know," he admits with a sigh. "It's unfair being tied to me. I can't be a dad, or a husband. I'm not the kind of guy to be that person, I'm just a-a mess there, you know?" 

"Nu said something about a lady catching your eye." 

He confirms it with a nod of his head. "Elain."

Varian's hand is immediately on his suit jacket, curling into a steely fist and bringing him close. Azriel lurches sideways with the tug, holding back his head as Varian brings him almost nose-to-nose. 

"Don't you dare play her like that," he commands roughly, eyes steely. "Don't even think of it. If you're not planning on treating her the best you fucking can, don't waste her time-"

Azriel covers Varian's hand with his own, releasing himself with a slight tug before righting himself. "Calm down," he mutters. "I'm not tricking anyone. I've had enough of going round in circles. I've been honest with her from the start. Besides," he adds. "It's nothing really. We just hang out and I think I'm just a lost puppy without her. It's all." 

"What's up with what you said just now then?" 

Azriel opens his mouth and closes it. After a few moments he tries to piece together some words. "Not to sound self deprecating, but I'm a mess. At least familial wise. My job, my past, my issues. It's unfair to tie anyone to them. I'm just a whole mess to be around, so why doom anyone with that?" 

"When Rhonda and I got together I felt like I was lying to her," Varian crosses one long leg over the other. "The man she thought I was wasn't me; he was better, kinder. It's like she got together with someone else. I always worked to be the man she saw me to be. And Az that's the point of being with someone. That's the whole point. Meeting the standard they hold you to. Because they see the real you."

Azriel blinks. "I don't think I'm fit to be like you." 

Varian pats his knee. "You have everything you need. Don't tell yourself otherwise." 

"I was promised coffee!" Nuala's voice rings from the end of the floor. Azriel leaps to his feet and hurries towards the break room. Half an hour passes of the three of them going through the recording of Varian's interview with the woman and making notes, brainstorming possible answers to proposed questions. 

Azriel looks up one moment, Nuala having streamed his lap with photographs and documents since he refused to get off the desk surface. A glance around the busy room, his gaze lands on Lucien at his desk monotonously filling in data on his computer. The case Azriel gave him to solve has yet to be solved, Lucien hitting a mental brick wall today so Azriel gave him the task of filing in the department's reports in the hopes that the mind numbing task would stimulate something in his brain. 

His gaze strays from Lucien's long red hair, finding Helion outside on the staircase with Officer Sholto. 

"Hey," Azriel nudges Varian, making him look up. "Helion being out of his office is unusual as it is. Why's he talking to Sholto?" 

Varian frowns, blinking several times. "I'm not sure what I'm seeing."

Nuala too looks up and over her shoulder, craning her neck. "Who's going to ask him?" 

Azriel laughs dryly. "Ahaha fuck no. It's your turn."

"What?!" she demands, snapping her gaze to him. "No! I asked last time and nearly lost my job!" 

"All I know if I irritate him again ever I'm getting the sack and the guillotine," Azriel deadpans. "Those three weekends I pulled after each other nearly made him send me to Guantanamo."

Nuala pats Varian's knee. "You're drawing the short stick, boo." 

"Please no, I have a family." 

As they watch Helion's somber serious gaze, Sholto's face drops as he blanches, and his eyes immediately fill with tears, his hand rising to his chest before he bolts for the stairs. 

Helion stares after him for a second, sympathy and pity so clear on his face before he walks inside. Varian opens his mouth but shuts it. 

"Ian go after him," Helion instructs the nearest detective. Azriel scowls as Ian grabs Sholto's belongings off his desk and his own, quickly following him out. 

Helion pauses at Lucien's desk, his eyes fixing on his son and blinking as if he can't believe he's there. "What are you doing?" 

Lucien sits straight from his slouch. "Uh doing my tasks. Sir." 

"Why are you still here?" 

"..Sir?" 

Helion looks up at the three of them, who quickly duck their heads down together, accidentally knocking into each other. Cursing, Azriel rubs the smarting spot on his skull. 

Helion looks at his son once more. "I expect all my officers to not ignore their devices." And then he walks towards his office.

Lucien reaches for his own in his pocket, sliding it out. His eyes immediately widen into full moons, and he leaps to his feet, sending his chair rolling behind him. 

"Az!" he runs over to them. "I-I'm called to- first responder-"

"What the fuck?" he demands, snatching the phone from his hands and reading the message himself. Indeed, there's the order for all available cops to respond to the following address immediately. "You're not police anymore-"

"What do I do?"

"Go get geared up obviously! We'll find what this is about later. You can't ignore orders."

His trainee bolts out of the room, nearly knocking into Mathilda on his way out. Azriel meets Varian's gaze. 

Mathilda walks in ashen faced, staring at them, looking as if words are piled in her mouth. She timidly makes her way towards them, glancing around her, knocking her shin on a desk on her way.

"Hey, darling, you all right?" Azriel reaches out, fingertips brushing her elbow and bringing her back to earth. She blinks, locking gazes with them. 

"A school's on lockdown," she faintly says. "A shooter. They've called in SWAT teams and all available cops."

Nuala softly curses as the room quiets down, ears tuned in to any conversation. Azriel blinks, taking in the words. 

"Any casualties?" Varian asks softly. 

She shrugs, wringing her hands together. "I don't know."

"God help them," mutters Nuala, patting Azriel's jacket pocket and sliding out his packet of cigarettes, then the lighter in his trousers. He is quiet, face blank. What is he supposed to say? Do? What facial expression is suitable? "The kids, I can't imagine...the staff..." She goes on as she lights one. "Man, the parents."

He recalls Elain letting him in on the drills they go through, the necessary precautions and the absolute fear in her students. If he is honest with himself, that conversation was one he did not enjoy having. While Nuala's imagination falls short, he doesn't need his. He knows all too well, can feel it keenly himself. 

Elain's school has gone to the lengths of providing the teachers and staff with defense training and has even taught them how to disarm the shooter. He is still of the firm opinion that arming a person with that isolated ability and confidence without having instilled in them proper fighting skills is a spell for disaster. Cassian is right: a person's fear is their best chance at survival. He imagines it would be a bit of a disaster, trying to disarm a shooter when you've only learned how to in a workshop a few weeks ago against an opponent who does not want to hurt you. 

He shifts on the desk, brushing off the documents and photographs from his lap, sliding off onto his feet. His feet take him to the window, where he stands before it and stares quietly onto the watery world outside. He misses the look exchanged between his friends, and Nuala's urging tilt of her head at his back. 

Kids. They make him think of the one he carries isolated from the world in his chest, the one he can't be rid of. Traumatised children set him loose into the wild, his terrified confused mind leading him astray and Azriel has to chase him down, bring him back, calm him down. It would be an easier feat if the kid was remained unharmed, but he ever so rarely doesn't suffer blows from the cruel world, something that renders Azriel into a frenzy to treat him, bring him back, earning blows himself. 

His arms rise, folding across his chest in a mockery of a hug. His gaze falls onto the scars spread over his hands, reeling him back into his past, the child he carries getting on all fours, preparing to bolt. 

He screws his eyes shut and presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, exhaling heavily, his breath fogging on the glass. 

Nuala clears her throat, chair wheels rolling. "Az? Are you-?" 

She is cut off by the ringtone of his cellphone. Inhaling heavily, he straightens, rubs his forehead and picks up the phone, pressing the green button. 

"Detective Bougainvillea speaking." 

It's Mrs Trudent's sister. The minute she introduces herself and puts an image to her voice for him, he knows exactly what she wants and already goes through his schedule. She invites him over for a cup of tea, her hoarse tired voice holding her real request: she wants answers. 

It's nothing he hasn't done before and he has no qualms regarding it: people who have experienced loss to senseless violence seek closure most of all, a reasoning behind their suffering. He usually seeks to give it to them, be it in identifying the criminal or arresting them, or -in this instance- answering questions and offering comfort. 

"You're heading out?" Varian asks him as he pockets his phone. Azriel nods wordlessly, swiping his keys off the desk.

"Are you fi-?" Varian asks just as he's shrugging on his coat, cut off by his phone ringing yet again. 

Graysen's Caller ID lights up the screen, dragging a frown from Azriel's lips. Is it about Winnie?

"Hello?" Azriel pivots on his heel, stalking a few steps away from his friends.

"You heard about the school shooting?" he begins immediately, tone strained and tight. Azriel nods, and remembers he can't see him. 

"Yeah. Why are you asking? I can't tell you any-"

"I thought you should know. It's Foxwood Private Academy."

See, look, he hears the words, but he doesn't really understand them. He hears them, they sound distinctly familiar, but his mind is so obsessively busy with other thoughts and his own emotions that he doesn't take in what Graysen says. Foxwood Private Academy seems like Azriel has heard of it, and not for a second does he understand what he's saying. 

"Isn't that, uh..." He wrecks his mind searching for the link. "Isn't that Elain's school?" 

He is silent on the line before all Azriel hears is a sob. Nuala gasps.

And then it hits him. 

Elain's school. 

"Do you have Winnie?" is what comes spluttering out of his mouth. "Winnie- Elain said she was going to bring her to you." 

"She did," he sobs. "Elain- Elain's been shot. We're at the hospital. It's bad." 

It doesn't really sink in. The words. He knows them, again, but they don't make logical sense in his mind. He knows the meaning behind them, theoretically, but they don't have the impact supposed to. An address. He needs an address. So he asks for the hospital's. 

Were it not for his badge, he would have been written speeding ticket after speeding ticket as he raced death towards the hospital. Logic- that's something he had, once, but nothing really takes hold over him. All he can think of is Winnie because she is the only one in a predicament he can see her being in. Elain shot- he can't picture it. It seems to go against the very laws of nature in his mind. Shock. Shock is preventing him from understanding this. Elain shot. In her own school. 

He has rushed and been rushed to the ER more times than he can count throughout his life. A wounded friend from a dumb idea, an injury in the kitchen, an accident at work, an arrest gone wrong, Feyre going into labour- and yet he's never felt like he was walking in another isolated world as he does when he parks his car and hurries to the ER doors. 

Things in his life tended to take a negative extreme of being 'too much'. Smothering. Stifling. Too loud. Tingling his skin. Too much, until he often wished he'd never been born. Migraines are a constant in his day unless he treats them with hours of lying still in the dark. His emotions are too strong, too. Too vivid for him to handle. He's always been so passionate; he feels too much, hurt even more. He climbs to the highest peaks and break his neck falling. 

But when he walks through those doors, immediately spotting Graysen and Winnie, he is walking in another world; a numb, isolated, quiet -too quiet- world. He can't feel the impact of his feet against the floor, much in the same way that he doesn't feel things with his hands. His eyes latch onto Winnie, held by the arms by her father who is rapidly saying something, eyes glistening with tears and looking as if he is shouting at her. The girl's face is scrunched up, tears pooling down her face, and she is throwing the wildest tantrum of a child her age. She looks as if she's screaming, throwing all her weight behind her.

He supposes what drew him to Winnie initially is that he sees nothing of himself in her and yet stills feels a connection with her based off nothing. Everyone he's ever chosen, everyone he's ever connected with on his own, he had always seen a piece of himself reflected in them. Victim children, lost teenagers, hurt adults. Suffering people seem to him like a kindred spirit- someone who would understand. So he's been attracted to them, a moth too close to flames. 

But Winnie and her mother; there was nothing in common between them, initially, that would explain why he would want to spend his time with them. Especially Elain: their upbringings cannot be more different, their lives opposite ends of a spectrum, and yet being in the same room as her, given her attention, surpassed any kindred spirit he had ever felt with others. Winnie drew him in with the melody her existence sang; a fresh start, a clean slate, a sharp opposite to the child he carries.

But looking at her now, weeping and desolate, he feels that familiar connection with a suffering person but none of the original spark. His knees bend, his hands reach out to catch her as Graysen releases her and she throws herself away from him. He faintly hears her shredding her vocal cords apart, small frame shuddering with every inhale of breath, eyes and face already blotchy red. He kneels, fixing her in his arms as she weeps, and his mind goes for the worst possible scenario. 

Her mother is dead. Her mother- not Elain. Not their Elain. Her mother. This is how he can manage; her mother has abandoned her, left her for the wolves of the world, a little child abandoned and alone. He knows that. He's lived that. He knows how to exist in that terrifying darkness, and how it would feel for her. 

"Winnie," her name is falling from his lips over and over as she cries. He cradles her in his lap and presses her as close as he can to his person. "Bunny, look at me. It's Azriel. Your friend. Winnie, everything is all right. It's ok." 

"Mama," she cries, her voice steadily gaining sharpness in his ear. He's beginning to hear some of the background noise of where they are, the hazy faint ringing slowly subsiding. "Mama! Mama!" 

"It's ok," he whispers in her ear, hugging her tightly. "Look at me, it's all right. It's okay."

He looks up at Graysen as she continues crying, his hands rubbing steady circles in her back. Graysen rubs his eyes roughly, sniffling. "The ambulance took a while to get her. She bled out in her classroom." 

"She's fine," he breathes out, looking down at Winnie. "What did you tell her?" 

Graysen's pale face stares at him, seeming to take in a few minutes to understand his question. Azriel can't blame him, he takes a moment to understand his own words. 

"Truth. That- That she has to know that- she might not see her again-"

He surges to his feet, bringing Winnie up with him. She sobs in his shoulder, violently shuddering and all he can suddenly think is _what is wrong with this man?_

Graysen looks away, then stands up and stumbles away, rubbing his face. He then up and leaves. Leaves his upset kid in Azriel's arms. 

"Winnie, duck. It's all right," he softly coos after gaping for a moment after Graysen's retreating back. "Mama's all right. You'll see her again."

His arms begin to ache with carrying her sobbing self. Locating a vending machine, he buys a water bottle and a bar of chocolate, settling down with her in the waiting room. She cleaves his heart in two with her dry sobs, her hiccups, her red eyes and her wet face. He wants to take it all away from her, yank away that sorrow and shelter her with his own body. 

So he wraps her in his coat and the grip of his arms, gives her water to drink, and holds her as she exhausts herself. She falls asleep hiccupping against his chest, occasionally whining and moaning for her mother and unknowingly cutting wounds into his heart.

It's when she settles down that some semblance of fickle sense seeps into him. That he begins to snap out of his daze. Steadily, the world becomes louder and louder. Winnie breathes too heavily, the people waiting with them are causing too much of a ruckus, the staff outside are noisy, wheels squeak against the polished floors, doors slam shut too loudly, pens are being clicked too much, murmurs are shouts in his head. 

His knee begins to bounce as his chest gets tighter and tighter with every passing second and his nose stings. Then it goes away for a second and comes back. What is he doing? He's supposed to be solving a murder, meeting a grieving person, not waiting in a hospital with a two-year-old collapsed in his arms. What is he doing? What is he doing? What should he be doing?

He pulls out his phone, finding Feyre's number and calling her. She near screams her fear at him when he tells her.

He calls Rhys. His brother's tongue is set loose with the foulest, filthiest of curses and he promises his presence as soon as he is able.

Calls Cass. Who keeps a calm demeanor even when his hoarse rough voice carries his rage, telling him he'll be with Az immediately. 

He calls anyone who would listen, care, help, know what to do. His thumb hovers over Mor's number but thinks better of it, pocketing his phone and pulling Winnie warmer, tucking her head under the curve of his jaw. Stares at the opposite empty seats. Ignores the looks directed towards him as his chest grows tighter and tighter and his throat is stuffed and his jaw quivers.

Just as he is about to lose his composure, he recalls that he has promised someone consolation and answers. It won't do now, not when Azriel needs the answers himself. So he calls her and apologises.

He explains that he cannot meet with her today. It's unfortunate, but something has come up urgently. He promises to call her tonight, assure her that he's doing everything he can to find her sister's murderer. It's as if someone else is speaking, someone calmer and more collected- he needs to meet that person, ask him how he is doing everything, being so stoic and calm. Ask him for the way he's lost. 

Winnie wakes from her impromptu nap a few minutes later, seeming to forget the reason of her tears. She looks happy to see him; her wide immediate smile says as much. He's in no hurry to remind her, so he pulls on the widest beam he can muster back, even when it feels as heavy as stone. 

"Azeel," she mumbles, snuggling closer under his coat, her feet brushing his elbow. He loves the innocence with which she says his name, it renders life a touch brighter. 

"Yes?" he is glad his voice doesn't shake, remains the soft tone she is attuned to.

"Play?" she requests. In answer, he hands her his phone. She clicks through apps, enraptured by colours more than the actual context, and he monitors her half-heartedly to make sure she isn't going through anything important. In the end, she settles on the note's app to draw in and it sufficiently claims her attention. For a few moments, as the feelings come and go like the tide of a sea, he allows himself to feel miserable and spent and upset. Familiar negativity creeps over his shoulder, an old unwelcome friend that overstays their welcome, and he goes through that familiar routine of feeling nothing at all then everything at once. Drowning in water, dying of thirst. 

Eventually, he cannot handle the wait on his own and Winnie starts asking about her mother. The lie falls easily from his lips -she's all right, napping and yes we'll see her soon- and carries her out of the waiting room. Locating a nurse at the reception desk he asks her about Elain Archeron. 

"She came in an hour or so ago," he says bleakly. "I- I want to know how she is." 

"Are you kin?" the nurse asks. He sighs, a sound followed by the shake of his head.

"A very close friend," He struggles to find an answer through the knots in his stomach. "Potential boyfriend. I don't know. I need to know how she is. This is her kid, and she's asking about her and I- her father bolted and I don't know what to do-"

After seeing some ID, she gives him the ward name, and the directions to it. He thanks her sincerely, leaving the ID with her per her request, and takes Winnie to see her mother. It's a form of blessing that Winnie has yet to realize her mother's name is not "Mommy" or "Mama" making it so that the exchange happened without her looking up once from his phone. 

"She's sleeping now," the nurse coming out of the ward doors tells him when he asks. "Surgery's anesthesia will wear off in a few hours. We need to monitor her for a while." 

The words are awful because they don't belong to Elain. Not the Elain he knows.

"Mama!" exclaims Winnie as they step inside and make their way towards her bed, a nurse pulling the privacy curtains shut around her, and he reflexively tightens his hold around the girl. 

"Sshh," a hushed whisper. The toddler gets the context when he holds a finger to his lips, nodding her head. She still wiggles to be let down and makes her way to where her mother's seated. 

Elain. What happened hits him in full force as he takes her in. She's never been this pale, hooked on IV solutions and devices to monitor her vitals, absolutely motionless, white bandage wrapped around her head. He hates it. Hates it. Hates the grief it brings him, the sickness it incites in his stomach, the tears it brings to his eyes. He hates it. Elain doesn't belong here- Elain belongs in her classroom with her students, in her home, with her sisters and friends, with her daughter, in her kitchen, doing what she loves. Elain belongs to the world of the living, the unsuffering, the healed, the untouched. She doesn't belong here. Winnie doesn't belong here. 

This is his world; this world of grief and misery and adjusting to the heavy weight that breaks backs. He is used to this, used to being accustomed to suffering and tragedy and grief. His world shouldn't have spilled into theirs. This wasn't the intention. He was supposed to step into theirs, hold back his own at all costs and feel what it is to live as a healthy normal being. 

He sits heavily in a plastic chair, his knees too weak to support his weight and his forehead finds a grave in his palm. Winnie comes back to him after staring quietly at her mother, requests to be held. And who is he really to deny? So he complies. She leans against him, opening YouTube, quiet and content. 

_What are you doing?_ A voice screams at him. Why is he here in the first place? Why is he even here before her family? Why is he sitting with a child that is not his, waiting on a woman who’s not his? 

_Go. Leave. Her own dad left her behind. There’s no reason you should stay. It’s not your responsibility. You have enough on your plate as it is. Go. Go before it’s too late._

_Don't hurt yourself. You don’t need this. Walk away. Go._

_Go. Go. Go. Go._

_Leave. You have no obligation._

His eyes sting. The words are chanted over and over in his head. 

He doesn’t move. He won’t. He can’t. He’ll never. 

_I’m staying._

It's another blessing as he stares at Elain's still form that Winnie can't see him. He stares, and with every passing second there's the steady realisation that it was fear in him, one that mirrored the terror gripping his heart while he tried to hold Milo's shattering lifeform, a fear that blocked out the world to protect him from the hurt. One that set the child loose and tied up the adult. Fear of a different breed. He stares at Elain, his chest compressed, his muscles weak and tears quietly find tracks down his face.

_I don't want to lose you._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “So if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me because I, too, am fluent in silence.”  
> -R. Arnold

Cassian Castiglione is a man of a turbulent summer storm temper and is well aware of the fact. He is easy to anger, provoke and irritate and equally easy to soothe; his emotional hurts don't scar and they heal promptly like an abrased knee. He does not hold onto the past, despite it following him around, and he regularly deposits of any accumulated thoughts, whatever they might be.

Having said that, a venomous need for murder churns in him at the sight of his friend half dead and it promises to remain: a lurking monster of nightmares in his mind.

It's a mental chore to relate the aspect of his life he so cleanly left behind to the civilian mundane one his friend leads. Seeing Elain lie still and gaunt as if touched by the cold hand of death, he is reminded of his own comrades that he stood over so, solemnly paying his respects and bidding a longlasting forever farewell. It's a jarring clash of two aspects that shouldn't meet, in his opinion. Quaint normal Elain with her pressed flowers and soft pricked hands with the smell of metallic blood, gunpowder and the defeating explosions of bullets escaping their chambers.

In some way, Cassian feels the faintest responsibility. How could he not, having had his life revolve around being the Marine That Never Missed; his hands, strong and well acquainted with the morphology of a firearm, curling expertly around the grip of a gun; the tips of his fingers having memorised the edges of a trigger as a lover's body, the sound of a loading firearm as familiar to him as his mother's voice.

He knew one thing: his world should never have mixed with hers.

When Azriel called him, voice calm and steady, Cassian immediately knew something was wrong; Azriel rarely bothered to school his tone unless there was a dire need for it. His friend, so alienated from the norms of human behaviour, relied heavily on his voice to deliver what his body or words could not. Azriel told Cassian Elain was shot and Cassian lost sense of time for a moment. For a moment he was back in base during his tours, helping Ben to a medic tent and being informed by comrades that they'd lost another man. Cassian remembers all who served with him, lies in bed at night recalling their names and their faces and making sure they do not die, as he had several times when some would be lost under his command. Banksy muses that death comes twice; once when the person stops breathing, and a second time, when their name is uttered for the very last time. Cassian is painstakingly a person of that opinion and is determined to keep them alive as long as he is; his time on earth being bartered and the price having been paid with their lives.

And seeing Elain as weak and vulnerable as his mortally wounded friends had been when they'd been too late in getting them medical attention, Cassian's temper rises untamed by professionalism and order of rank. To an extent, he had been able to control himself when it came to his fellow soldiers losing their lives, their health. Restricted by decorum and the dire need to be the wanted pillar of sense and clarity, it was a straightforward business of protocol. But seeing his civilian helpless friend lie so still, at the mercy of gunshots and the monstrosity of men who knew no good?

Cassian wishes he had a lighthouse to guide him through that storm.

Azriel, bless his yearning heart, was sat next to Elain with the sense of purpose of a guard dog. Protecting the woman and her child with the duty of a predator guarding his family with his life. Cassian saw it at once, his heart chipping for his friend who hasn't realised it yet. Azriel did not yield Winnie when both Cassian and Feyre barged into the room, breathless and hearts hammering in their chests, but he kept his arms locked around her while she clicked away on his phone and he squared his jaw, levelling the variously grieved pair with a determined look.

Cassian knew that look extremely well; Azriel's determination to be hard and resolute as stone while grappling blindly for a purpose and direction. The man had worn it continuously as a teenager, and well into his early adult life when he went into the police force, fighting loss with a memorised textbook definition of good and evil. Azriel continuously fought perception of him with what he was taught, never quite ever managing to find a peace of mind ever in his life. Cassian doesn't think he has ever reached it.

Cassian went into the military because he had little chance of doing anything else, especially with his mother's ill health. A career delivered right after graduating high school was the best solution he could find- and, if he is honest with himself, he craved the fight; wanted a taste of it. Rhysand gravitated naturally to the play of words and the field of law, enraptured with the notion of meaning and moralities that it was barely a surprise, considering his father's successful career in it. Morrigan took to journalism like a duck to water, forever taken with stories and sharing them.

Azriel, on the other hand, was lost. He claimed that solving crime feels like solving the puzzles Mrs Blackwood buys him, slowly piecing together the bigger picture and uncovering a clear truth. But Cassian knew well enough that it's rarely so clean.

He sees it in every case Azriel closes. They used to frequent cafes and restaurants together, sharing their weeks, and with every case Azriel closed, Cassian saw that his friend was more lost than he was before. Every abnormality of humanity Azriel saw served to only tarnish the normality Mrs Blackwood taught him vigilantly. _The math doesn't add up_ , Cassian could see his eyes chanting over and over with more volume each time. _It makes no sense._

Feyre sobbed over her sister, turning her back so Winnie would not see and muffled the sound with her palm while her tears spilt generously. Cassian stood at the foot of Elain's bed, hands deep in his pockets, and his mouth downturned. The wrongness of the situation egged him like the eight legs of a spider on his skin. A desperate need for justice clawed at his throat, a desire for retribution and returning the favour. Who would dare shoot an elementary school? Innocent untarnished children and their selfless teachers- Cassian's hands clawed for a throat to rip apart, a face to punch.

So he does the next best thing, the thing he knows to do in such situations; try to salvage them.

He pays his respects by standing vigil two minutes, staring at Elain and promising to do anything in his power. Then he inhales deeply, clenches his hands and directs his gaze at the other two occupants in the room.

"Feyre," his hoarse voice breaks the heavy silence as he steps towards her and clasps a firm hand over her shoulder. "That's enough. We have work to do. Here, wipe your tears, and get a grip."

Her face crumbles, eyebrows curving together as she closes her eyes and nods. Her fingers shake as she takes the tissue from him, and her throat bobs unsteadily. "I know- I just-"

Cassian wraps a sturdy arm around her shoulders, tone softening to avoid Winnie's ears. "I know. I know. Just help me help her, and we'll all talk and cry about it later. Now's not the time. She needs us."

She huffs a stricken breath and nods. "God..." she pushes her hands through her hair and holds it at the nape of her neck. "What is there to do? I can't think-"

"I'm going to take you to her place, pack her things," Cassian begins, thinking of Elain's most basic needs. She'll need some items of her own. "We'll talk to her boss, tell her she's not going to be coming around. Go to her school, fetch her things. There's tons to do."

Feyre nods again, blows her nose and presses her hands to her forehead. "I'll call Nesta."

Cassian feels a grimace growing on his face- her sister's been unreachable the past two days. Having built a semblance of a friendship and regularly exchanging text messages and calls with the eldest Archeron sister, Cassian recognised her patterns of disappearing for varying periods of time. He learned not to push it, or her, and that just as Nesta retreated into her shell she would come out of it when she was ready. Feyre doesn't seem to grasp that.

Turning on his heel, his gaze falling on Azriel, he is painfully reminded of the similarities between them. While Nesta he learned how to manage and help, Azriel was a far cry from that. His brother just drifts from any norm they know, even a characteristic norm. Cassian's been trying to decipher Azriel for years, to figure out his patterns and his mentality but his brother is an unpredictable force of nature. What little of him he has managed to read between the lines of is all of what Cassian has.

"Hey, 'ey," he clicks his fingers in Azriel's face, tone sharp. "You go back to work."

Azriel only levels him with a quiet stare, eyes alive and practically pulsing with emotions and decisions Cassian cannot begin to decode. Winnie briefly diverts her attention from the obnoxiously loud Youtuber on the phone before bringing her feet up and adjusting her position in Azriel's lap to curl in his arms, leaning against a forearm and his chest. Azriel remains silent though his actions speak louder as he cradles Winnie’s shoulder with a scarred palm, and it is made abundantly clear that he is not moving.

"If you're not going to be useful at your job then look after the kid," Cassian jerks his chin at Winnie. He cannot allow Azriel to drift so far in his head; that's a black hole he can never pull him out of. "Feed her, take her out of this damn room. There's a park. Go on, scram."

Azriel looks down at the child in his arms, motions smooth and still-like. A predator animal protecting his pack. "Are you hungry, Bunny?" he voices softly, the first he's spoken since they arrived. It's a far cry from Azriel's usual crisp and cold tones, harsh and unfriendly by accident.

Winnie meets his gaze and nods eagerly before closing his phone. She gives it back, manners instilled by her mother dutifully and grins up at him as she reclines back in his arms. Her bright hazel eyes twinkle at Azriel, stars in a dark sky, and reaches up with her short arms, small fingers dancing fondly over his sharp chin and his lower lip. Azriel stares down at her, a heartaching softness on his face before he kisses her fingers. Cassian is at lost for words at the ease of the girl, reclining in his arms like a lazy cat trusting her owner, and at Azriel’s attentiveness.

"All right," the tall man gets to his feet, swinging the girl up with him. "What do you want to eat?"

"Dino nuggies!" She requests, beaming, as she sequesters her arms around his neck. 

"Dino nuggies, huh," Azriel muses as he fetches her coat and backpack. "Can't have just nuggies?"

"Noo," she whines playfully, grinning at him as he guides her coat onto her small form. "Dino!"

Azriel pecks her cheek with a brief kiss as he makes his way towards the door, directing Winnie's attention away from her mother. "All right, Bunny. Let's see where we can find Dino nuggies. Let the search for the Dino commence. Can you say commence, Bunny?" 

Winnie beams brighter, tightens her arms around his neck and does not look back. There is no one but Azriel in her eyes. Azriel who looks at her in return much the same way; as if the world melts away and she is the only thing that remains. 

Cassian watches them leave, echoing attempts at words and conversation, and his heart clenches painfully. His brother, lost as ever, has been found by the least likely of all. The worst part is, he doesn’t know it, yet. 

* * *

“What are you going to do?”

Silence ensues, balanced by the faint chirping of birds in the winter afternoon and the popping logs in the fireplace of the grand room. Natha’s boots sounds muffled thuds on the polished checkered floor as she approaches the tall man. Her boss and comrade had changed little since they arrived back home with ended contracts with the government and new ones of private tours formed; his pitless dark eyes remained as they were since they all came to realize they were beyond the reach of help. She’s not blind enough to know she herself had reached a brick wall of change as well, having buried the orphan she was long ago along with her comrades on foreign soil. But Hybern seemed to elude even the touch of time, as he eluded everything else in his life.

The only change since they came home was his wardrobe of crisp business suits and expensive taste in manors. He wore them as if they were a second skin, as if he always had. There was a time she thought his uniform was that before he burned it in the fire.

His side profile sheds no light on the mystery his presence omits, the fading light falling on planes only adds to the heaps of questions as he ducks his head briefly before looking up.

“Casualties?” his cold tone crosses the space between them.

Natha slides her hands in her coat’s pockets, closing the space by standing two feet next to him. “Two kids dead. A teacher is in critical condition. Beron’s son was hit, too.”

“Fucking Mooney,” comes the low gruff snarl in response as his hand clenches into a tight fist over the wall.

“What are you going to do?” she repeats, jutting her hip to the side as her hand rests on it.

A sour look fouls his face. “Nothing. Is Nathaniel on it?”

Natha’s lips curl back in distaste at the mention of the gang leader of the Ravens. Though the branch serves its purpose for the gruesome and filthy, she’s yet to be able to stand its patriarch with his wiry pale hands and dead glossy eyes. Hybern has yet to find an end to his uses, so Natha hasn’t been allowed to dispose of him. A shame, really, she had such brilliant ideas of playing with him.

“I’m guessing so-“

“I don’t want guesses,” he snaps, black brows diving together in a deep scowl. “Find out.”

Natha stills. “If you’re going to do nothing about it, I don’t see why you’d be concerned. Why do we care who comes out top? Beron, Mooney, Nathaniel, the twins. They’re all the fucking same,” she scoffs.

Hybern’s vein protrudes on his forehead, the clearest sign of his agitation. “We care because I won’t have this establishment falling apart on the brink of our breakthrough.”

Natha pulls a cigarette out of her packet, sliding it between her lips and lighting it in speed. “My branch isn’t affected by the whims of others. Anvil will stand strong even if the others crumble.”

Hybern brushed a knuckle across his lips. “They haven’t dealt with the detectives. I thought I ordered Beron to handle it?”

Natha scoffs again. “Your man Beron is more concerned with running after his son. Pity to see Eris go, he was so effective. I miss the days I could rely on him.”

Hybern straightens. “Eris will not replace his father. Neither the other two.”

Natha’s lips part and her cigarette tilts down. Before the ash could burn a hole in the expensive afghan rug, she rights it and holds it between her fingers. “Meddling with the line of succession, Hybern,” she begins slowly, watching him carefully. “Are you ready for the repercussions of that?”

Her friend’s expression darkens more. “Say that again.”

“I will,” her tone carries her resolution and her lack of fear as she stares firmly. “And I’ll say it a third time if need be. Are you sure about interfering with the branches’ business directly? It’s one thing to hold all the ropes, but it’s another to play them yourself. The others will see it as direct overtaking. Some of them are worried about merging, this will confirm their fears. The only reason you’re king here is because you’ve given them a semblance of freedom. Promise to take that away, and you’ll be turned against.”

One corner turns up slightly in mock humour as he refuses to answer. Natha narrows her eyes at him.

“Who do you have in mind anyway?”

Hybern runs his hands over the lapels of his suit. “Reach out to our contacts in Blackthorn Prison. It’s time to cash in a favour.”

“ _Monrose_?!” she shrieks, unable to contain herself. “He’s in that place because he was incompetent in the first place-“

“He’s in that place because it was convenient for me,” Hybern’s tone hardens. “And now he’s coming out because it’s also convenient to me. I won’t ask twice, Natha.”

“You’d rather all of Beron’s branch go to that _wimp_ instead of Eris? The reason he’s in there was because he was blind and soft when it came to his fucking fiancé-“

“A lot happens to a man like Tamlin Monrose in five years in Blackthorn,” he replies simply before turning on his heel and walking away. “I intend to harvest those events.”

Natha watches him walk out, her jaw slack. Sometimes, she never knew what Hybern was thinking. The smell of something burning wafts into her nose and glancing down, she’s greeted with the sight of her cigarette ashes smouldering a hole in the afghan rug.

“Shit,” she startles.

* * *

Azriel parted ways with the others when night fell. His phone was refusing to shut up from an onslaught of calls from almost every soul at the station; it seems they were taking turns on it, Helion’s assistant sparing him no peace of mind with repeated text messages and calls. By the tenth phone call from the receptionist, he decided he had to get back if he wanted his head to remain on his shoulders.

Not that Winnie was happy with his decision. Feyre and Cassian were in and out of the room, occasionally dropping him updates through texts as they ran multiple errands. Azriel only brought Winnie back to the hospital when he decided to leave, and he had to wait for Graysen to show up to take over the duty of looking after Winnie.

The girl threw a tantrum when Azriel got up and did not take her with him, even more so when it was her father who stepped in and it was made clear to her who was her caretaker now.

“I want ‘o to stay!” she wept, clinging to Azriel’s pants while her father tried to pry her off.

“I’ll be back,” Azriel promised the weeping child as all his instincts screamed at him to pick her up and shelter her with his arms. He couldn’t remember something harder than having to turn his back on her (is this what Elain felt everyday when she had to leave her girl for two jobs?) while she begged him to stay.

The department is in an uproar even at the late hour: the minute he pushes those large glass doors, he's overwhelmed by the sight of workers at their desks, the rowdy room beeping and buzzing with ringing phones, loud and noisy with telephones ringing, along with the FBI stationed in the centre of the cleared out briefing room. He spots Lucien hurrying to and fro as he makes his way towards Helion's office. Nuala is at her desk and she shoots him a wide eyed look as he passes. Varian is just coming out of Helion’s office, locking gazes with Azriel. Worry colours his dark face, concern about to spill from his lips before Helion emerges.

"Where were you?" Helion asks the very second Azriel meets his gaze silently. His boss runs a critical eyes over him, from his shoes to the top of his head, focusing on his face.

"Hospital," he responds quietly, averting his gaze to the floor. "I had to see someone."

Helion is striding towards him immediately, file in hand that he presses to Azriel's chest. "FBI is starting to put together profiles, come on."

Taking the file, Azriel looks down at it. ‘ _Foxwood Private Academy Shooting’_. He shuts his eyes from Varian’s heavy stare as he braces himself for the case; this will be another one of those cases that stick with him, pass the cracks in his armour and takes a piece of his soul with it. For a second, he reigns himself in, reminds himself to be professional and not take this personal. This is just another case. Nothing's different. Just his regular attachment to victims and misfortune and his own trauma forcing him to sympathise with them.

But nothing can ever really brace him for the carnage it will leave in its wake.

* * *

Her head rolls before she realises she's awake. Her neck is stiff, skull heavy on the pillow beneath her head. Eyes peel back, almost crusty glue plastering them together. She blinks as her blurry vision tries to focus, faint sky blue of the ceiling greeting her eyes and the sounds of beeping machines her ears.

Her mouth is dry, lips sticky and holding onto each other, throat scratchy and unbearable when she tries to swallow, discovering nothing to swallow. She can't begin to think of the swollen feeling she has in her torso all over. 

Elain’s eyes are attracted immediately to a tuft of red bright hair, landing her attention right onto her principal. He sits in a chair, hand folded in his lap, arm in a sling, and staring blankly at the floor, his face unfamiliar and alien in its helpless grief. It's a blank one that has snuffed out the stern fire to be beheld in his gaze at any time. Elain tries to swallow and chokes on pure air. The sudden sound disturbs his trance, snapping his head up. 

He rises at once, his amber eyes are sick with worry; bright and shining and cancerous. She feels numb all over, oddly disconnected, as if someone has messed up the connections of her nerves. 

"I'm so glad you're all right," he utters softly, uncharacteristically, standing by her bed. His voice has been stripped bare of its walls. He is positively downtrodden and devastated, his amber eyes red rimmed and overflowing with a kind of guilt that is inescapable. "Elain."

She looks at him, having a hard time breathing in, and she wants to ask the question but she can't bring herself to. She stares at him as intensely as she can, heaving for breath and feeling in immense pain. 

She looks at Eris, the fear clear in her eyes as polished crystals, and the question gleams brighter, accented with fear. Eris averts his eyes, looks down at the sheets over her, blinking rapidly. Her hand twitches on the surface and she moves it, touching his hand and curling her fingers over his own, imploring him to speak, say, tell her against all the odds in the universe, against Elain's very own eyes-

"They didn't make it," he whispers, briefly glancing at her. Then he shakes his head, brow furrowing and eyes squinting under an onslaught of shine. "They died on the spot. It was quick for them but they never had a chance. You were the only one left to save."

Elain's tears rolls out of her eyes as her lips tremble in their attachment. 

_Why am I alive?_

A keening-like sound escapes her lips through her throat before she can even think better of it. But that's the thing: she can't think, she doesn't think. All she knows is that she was supposed to be dead, not the children. 

"The kids.." he begins and tries again when his voice fails him, ending in a squeak. "The kids told us what happened."

She sobs, her whole chest jerking with the movement and aggravating her wounds. What are her flesh wounds but a marking and insight to the wounds in her heart? She sobs, and with every sob it rattles her back, hot tears blur her eyes and drip down her face and she wishes she was dead, wishes she didn't survive, wishes she had her face blown off and her breath stolen. Wishes she was gone- Why wasn’t she gone? Why was she alive-?

"They," Eris tries to say before his voice dies in a whisper and he closes his eyes. He hangs his head, and tears soak the bedsheets covering Elain's thigh. His shoulders tremble. "Curtis is unrecognizable. We only knew it's him from the register."

The keening sound escapes her again, and scratches her throat on its terrible cathartic way out. 

Per her quiet request, she's let go as soon as possible with two punctures in her abdomen, shoulder and a bruised back with a split head. To join that is a long list of medication and a bill that sees no end. She was told not to even think of paying a dime out of her pocket, and honestly Elain didn't insist. All her life savings won't be able to pay that off, even with her insurance. She doesn't know who is supposed to pay for her predicament: her school or her?

She heard Rhys going off at someone about the topic, and blatant threats were made, possibly to someone on the phone. Feyre said Eris was having troubles, one of them getting the insurance company to pay, and that Rhys snatched the phone from her principal with suing threats tumbling from his lips. Everyone was in a frenzy. It was all chaotic. Eris looked more often like a dazed man stumbling through the desert. Feyre constantly supported a far-away look in her cool eyes before snapping from her daze to text someone or make a call.

Elain couldn't really care. 

Not about anything. 

Her younger sister flocks to her side and her tears are a nonstop streaming river. Her phone doesn't shut up while she stays by Elain's side day after day, her frustration seeping through her resolve to keep the situation under control and honestly what’s to keep under control anymore? What can be done? The school’s been shut down, she heard, what with being a crime scene and all. Elain heard Feyre venting to Rhys on the phone about Nesta not picking up her calls, a possible source of her ire, and about the police officers that are a constant outside Elain’s door who want to interview her. It goes without saying that Elain would rather not speak to a soul.

Graysen is there, by all odds, hovering uncertainly in and out of her room as if he doesn’t know his place (is there a catalogue for navigating this situation, Elain thinks grimly? A handbook for _The Unfortunately Shot and Traumatised: Rules and Protocols_ ) and his hand-fiddling a characteristic self-soother. He’s achingly familiar: his worried eyes fixated on Elain and Elain only, lips twisting around words to say but his gut failing him, settling to constantly ask her nurses about her state. Elain wants to cry, wants to break down in sobs and fall in his embrace and soothe that long-standing ache in her back, her heart. Wants to wind back the clock a few years, back into a Sunday evening in their living room, picking soil from under her nails, her head in his lap and his hands in her hair.

But she doesn’t want to see him. Doesn’t want to see anyone, really. As lonesome as it sounds, Elain wants to be left alone to the agony of her thoughts and to quietly soak her pillow with tears.

But there is one person she yearns to see, and it makes her glance at the door every time it opens.

He doesn’t come.

Funny that she should find bitterness in her heart from that too- she didn’t think she had enough room for more hurt.

Graysen drives her and Feyre to her house when Elain's discharged and there the raging storm of an argument about taking care of Winnie breaks.

There’s no consideration for neither mother nor daughter as Feyre snarls and shouts about taking Winnie and keeping her out of the way while Elain recovers, and he insists that he cannot. They go back and forth there on the entryway, a tennis match of shouts while Elain clutches the railing of the stairs woozily and feels like she's about to fall over, contemplating the benefits of going up to her bed as opposed to just fainting on the spot. Winnie stands next to her mother uncertainly, hiding behind her leg and watching the shouting match silently with rounded eyes. 

"Can you…" Elain starts saying faintly, out of breath and pressing her hand to her shoulder before her voice fails her. "Stop," she tries to say, her scratchy throat making anything hurt to say. She leans against the railing, face scrunching up in pain.

" _I can't!_ " Graysen is shouting at Feyre, arms thrown out and panicked eyes are wide like a cornered rabid dog. He never did do well under such situations, he always sought to weasel himself out of them. Out of responsibility, mainly. "I can't look after her-"

"She's _your_ kid and her mother's been _shot_! You have to step up-!"

Thanks to their shouting, neither of them hear the car pulling up in the driveway and the distinct sound of a door slamming. Elain leans her head against the stair railing, pressing her forehead to something solid and just wants to die. _Stop shouting_ , she pleads. _Please just stop._

Their argument is abruptly cut off by the front door swinging open, the action first serenaded by the clicks of high heels and the scratching of four paws before a great husky bounds into the house eagerly, clearing the path for his mistress. Nesta Archeron steps inside and stops in the entryway, steel cool eyes revealed and settled on the trio at the foot of the stairs as she slides off her sunglasses.

Elain near sobs, relieved. 

* * *

Nesta takes the wheel, issues orders left and right like she's instructing a hall of students about to sit an exam, her snapping tone daring anyone to talk back. She kicked Graysen out of the house, told him if she ever sees him around she'll nail his balls to the wall, ordered Feyre to either go home or be helpful, put on a movie for Winnie in the living room and got Elain up to her room. 

Her room was eerily silent and dark. It’s funny; it’s exactly how Elain left it. Her sweatpants and shirt in the exact pattern of fabric thrown over the hastily made bed, the duvet in its same hasty appearance. Elain doesn’t know how to feel while Nesta, with her loving arm wound around her waist and her hand in Elain’s, helps her towards her bed and sits her down.

Elain’s lips quiver in the silence, the duvet shifting beneath her, her eyes threatening to spill her tears _again_. Her head is throbbing, her neck tender and swollen and bruised. Stitches everywhere in her. Nesta draws the long curtains shut, flicks on the bedside lamp and kneels before Elain.

It’s that softness in Nesta’s unfriendly gaze that breaks Elain’s composure. No one has ever managed to make her feel as loved and safe as Nesta, no one has taken care of her before like her. Right now, it taunts Elain of the better life she lived and mocks the travesty of her current existence.

How many words have Elain uttered to Winnie since she woke up? Not a single one.

How can Elain bring herself to look in her baby’s face, knowing that two other mothers like her have lost the opportunity to do so because of Elain’s failure? She doesn’t feel deserving of the warmth Winnie’s touch brings, or the sight of the lost lonely innocence of her gaze. 

Looking at Nesta now, seeing the same love, she has a similar feeling of undeserving. Elain shouldn’t be here in her house, shouldn’t be alive.

Her hand tightens over Nesta’s designer jacket, crunches the fabric as her sister rises a few inches and hugs her. Elain presses her face into her shoulder, fighting that void, giving in, then trying to resurface. Guilt and sadness are manacles around her ankles, dragging her heart down with them.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Lainy,” Nesta murmurs, near her ear. “But I’m here. And you’re all right. And no one will touch you now. And I’ll make everything all right.”

Nesta bundles her in her duvets and blankets, and arranges her pillows to accommodate her injuries. She brings Elain her medication, makes her soft food to have and strokes her head while Elain tries to recover from the dizziness that came with moving at all. Then she leaves her to rest.

The first hour comes, steady ticks of the clock, laying in the dark. Elain waits for sleep to take her, blinking bleary tired eyes at the silhouette of the armchair in the corner bearing her clothes and bag. She doesn't. She listens to Winnie watching a movie downstairs, Nesta doing the laundry, Feyre in the kitchen washing up, the neighbors' dog barking, Nesta's husky Oso playing outside in the backyard. 

The second hour or the third, or the first still –what is time? Everything feels blurry- she replays the incident in her head. Over and over. And over. And when she shakes off the daunting feeling creeping her back- again. But worse.

Then the panic creeps in, icy lover’s fingers straying up her spine. Her chest threatens to collapse onto its hollow structure as the bullets goes through her, as her students scream and cower and soil themselves, as one of them drops dead, the rest playing dead and others hiding. With every obsessive replay, it gets worse. Children drop like domino pieces, the monster in the mask fires round after never-ending round of ammunition, his red eyes glow in the dark, the glass shatters over her head. She’s slipping over blood and urine. The shots fire into her face, she feels them in her bones, shattering her facial structures, stripping her away.

Soft cries escape her lips. Elain ducks her head under her arms and sobs. Her cries must have carried throughout the house because her sisters run into her room and they embrace her and promise her she's safe now. Nothing can touch her. Nothing will ever hurt her. They swear on everything they ever cherished, tell her that they would die before they would allow anyone to hurt her. 

Red eyes glow in the corner of her nightstand, the hue of the digital clock blurring together, capture her. She stares, the way she did in the face of the monster, and feels herself floating again, drifting apart like two sheets of ice breaking off slowly from one another. 

* * *

“I didn’t actually think it was happening. It …never crossed my mind. It’s-It’s funny, how vigilant I’ve been about this, especially since Eastwood High. I was busy with the electrical problems all day and I didn’t realise it was happening until it started.”

Azriel leans back, crosses one leg over the other. He folds his scarred hands together in his lap, and trains his gaze on Eris as the principle talks. Nuala next to him takes notes, her pen scratching the paper being the only sound attempting to fill the silence between Eris’s quiet words. The man’s shoulders are slumped and his eyes fixed on the table between them in the interrogation room. The recorder sits before him, a cup of tea going cold in the icy room.

“When did the electricity shut down?” Azriel asks in a matching quiet tone.

Eris contemplates the answer for a few moments. “After assembly. It kept going on and off, switching between the backup engines and the main ones.”

Azriel glances at the file open before him. He doesn’t think there’s a case that’s been worked so vigilantly, reports being provided in optimal time. Helion had left no stone unturned. “DAU assessed the damage. They say it’s a man-made problem. Someone intentionally burned the engines out.”

Eris huffs a sigh, leaning forward to bury his face in his hand. This is yet another hole in the sinking ship. Insurance surely will not compensate with that.

“Any idea who?”

“Who what?” comes the muffled response.

“Someone inside the school with access did that. The damage was done hours before the shooting. We’re trying to rule out possible associates of the shooter.”

Nuala sticks the end of her pen between her teeth, regarding Eris with bright hues taking in his appearance.

Eris shakes his head finally and sits back.

Nuala sighs.

Azriel sucks in a breath, nibbles the corner of his lips. “This was pre-planned. It’s not like the other shootings.”

“All the shootings are planned,” Eris blearly responds.

“Not like this,” Azriel contemplates. “He took the time to map out the school, know exactly every nook and cranny. He knew the schedule the school runs on, knows that after assembly everyone would be in class and their offices, so the halls would be empty. This is too detailed to be a random political statement.”

“Political? You think there’s anything political about the shootings?”

“Some of them are,” Nuala provides. “Some are just hate crimes. Others are… well, gang war.”

Eris Vanserra is a master at controlling what he displays to the world, he is very careful and smart and meticulous. Nothing makes its way past his mask. Azriel knows the mind-set, the constant diligence and paranoia of cleaning up after yourself and removing every trace of your being in the world. He lived it constantly while undercover. And it’s because he knows of being the lone wolf, he knows Eris is the same.

Unfortunately for Eris, Azriel is observant and the flicker of his eyes away from the pair of detectives and his uninjured arm wrapping itself around his middle is a blatant giveaway. A self-soother. Azriel’s figured out five of Eris’s self-soothers, this is one of them. He’s uncomfortable.

They’ve prodded at a sore wound.

Azriel sighs once more as he shifts on the seat, uncrosses his leg and stretches them out. “Tell me the rest.”

Eris extends a hand and wraps it around the warm cup of tea. “I have a glock in the office,” he goes on. “So when I realised, I went to raise the alarm and it wouldn’t work. Because of the electricity. Called 911, and then I went to find him.”

He pauses, jaw quivering. “Everywhere I went, he had been there. The classes, they… the kids were going through the drill, and the teachers. There weren’t any casualties, just chaos. Broken glass. And then I try to cut him off, and he’s… he’s in Elain’s classroom. There’s blood everywhere, corpses… The kids are crying. It’s just,” his voice breaks off. “Too much red. Elain’s lying there, he’s standing over her, she’s red all over. She wasn’t moving so I thought… I shot him before he put more bullets in her. I got him, right where he got me next. He bolted and I went after him.”

Nuala leans in her seat, pen scratching. Azriel’s folded his arms around his middle tightly, hands clenched over his biceps tightly, and stares at Eris. Eris, whose guilt is nearly palpable.

“I left her there, and the kids… I couldn’t risk him shooting anyone else. I tried to chase him. When I came back to Elain, the kids were already gone and she- too much blood. I didn’t think she’d make it.”

Azriel recalls the touch of pale death on her face and hands last he saw her, her near coma state, the cannula in her hand.

“You made a tough call in a moment where you didn’t have time to think,” Nuala tells Eris. “It was the right call.”

His brow furrows. Everything is miserable, Azriel is quickly getting tired of it. _Enough_ , his mind chants. This is enough misery for a lifetime, it’s enough to drive anyone insane. Anger rises in him, hot and ravenous, at being so helpless. _Useless man_ , he scoffs. What is the point of his intelligence, his diligence and his attention to detail if he cannot prevent a tragedy such as this?

Their priority as of the moment is to capture the villain before anyone else will be his unfortunate victim. And after that? Going back to solving homicides and catching criminals. And after that? Again. A repeat of the dreadful, never-ending cycle. 

“I think sometimes that I could have saved the kids,” Eris admits, quietly, ashamed of himself. “If I hadn’t gone after him. Were they alive then, having their last breaths? I don’t know.”

Azriel looks down at the photographs of the crime scene –it’s near impossible to wrap his head around the concept that this is Elain’s classroom- where one picture portrays the boy identified as Curtis Jordan. His little face is blown messily into pieces, his chest soaked with dark blood coming from the gunshots in his trunk. Azriel flips the photograph to observe the girl, Sarah Sholto, whose head is exploded all over the floor in a horrifying recreation of an artist’s brush splashing on a canvas.

“I’m not forensics,” he pipes up quietly, earning Eris’s gaze. There’s a wild hunger Azriel can identify even with his eyes closed, for assurance and an ease of his guilt. He knows, he’s seen it in the mirror daily. “But there’s no way these kids even spent a few seconds alive after the first bullet.”

Eris shudders, eyes glistening slightly.

Nuala glances at her notes. “Elain’s classroom. There aren’t any casualties, only another teacher getting hit in the arm… Did you say he shot you after you did?”

Eris nods.

Nuala shakes her head. “This isn’t normal,” then she meets Azriel’s gaze when he rolls it towards her. “Eris’s description isn’t of a lunatic. He’s precise, meticulous. He planned it ahead of time. He was hired.”

Azriel sits up slightly. “Mercenary?”

Nuala nods. “He’s either there for Elain or Eris.”

Azriel’s heart doesn’t leap into his throat.

“But who’d be after Elain?” Nuala shakes her head. “I don’t think she’s ever hurt a fly. He’s not there for Elain- he’s there for Eris.”

“Why not go straight to my office?”

“Either to cover up his motive, or he thought you’d be at Elain’s,” muses Nuala. “Were you going to be?”

“I usually attend my teachers’ lessons. It was Elain’s turn.”

Ah.

Nuala nods.

“But who’d be after me like that?” asks Eris quietly.

Nuala smiles grimly, glances at the recorder and Azriel reaches out a hand and pauses it.

“I have a list,” she says dryly. “It’s alphabetized. Have you reached out to Dear Dad recently?”

Eris’s eyes widen.

 _Bingo_ , Azriel grimly thinks.

When they finish getting everything they can out of Eris, Azriel comes out of the room with a pounding head and eyes sensitive to the harsh bright light of the station. He leaves Nuala to hammer down onto the details, escaping the closed off confined room when it becomes too much. Azriel doesn’t like it there; it’s poorly lit, grim, cold, no windows and one heavy door. It reminds him of the very room he himself suffered in.

“Leaving already?” Varian breaks off his conversation with a co-worker when he sees Azriel emerge from his office, pulling on his coat. It’s the night shift for the new father tonight, and it’s already getting late, Azriel’s shift having long since ended.

“Yeah,” he fixes the coat’s collar and pats down the lapels. “Going to work on the Trudent case.”

“Nu?”

“Talking to Eris,” Azriel steps closer. “Listen,” he lowers his tone and Varian bids his co-worker goodnight before stepping up. “We think it’s related to the seven. Beron’s succession and all. Can you look into it on your end?”

Varian traces the rim of the file he carries and nods, chancing a glance around him. “I assume this isn’t confidential?”

“Not at all,” Azriel shakes his head. “FBI needs to know. Just… not our connections.”

He admires Varian for getting a hint without a second prompt. His friend immediately nods once, a knowing look on his face. “I’ll shake the tree and see what falls out.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

Nuala enters the floor, folders and papers tucked under an arm and her head bowed over her cellphone. She pauses next to Azriel, scrolling through messages before making a call.

“Everything alright?” he inquires when he catches sight of her furrowed brow and distant gaze.

“Dunno,” she says quietly as her phone makes the call. “Henry hasn’t responded to me for days.”

Varian shares a glance with Azriel. “Do you think he finally grew a brain and decided to make a run for it?”

Nuala’s boot taps on the floor. “I hope so, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Azriel clasps a hand on her shoulder briefly before leaving. His car is cold as he gets in, prompting him to rubs his arms while starting it. He reaches for his personal phone, pulling up Elain’s contact and calling her.

When she doesn’t pick up, he reckons he’ll just go to her house and check up on her. Feyre was supposed to be with her, according to the plans he had heard of before leaving the hospital. The days since Elain’s shooting were a blend of busy and chaotic, Azriel’s time spent majorly at the precinct, that he hadn’t had time to check on her or Winnie, despite his promise.

But it’s not Feyre who opens Elain’s front door when he rings the doorbell.

Azriel didn’t have any firm opinion of Nesta Archeron; he hardly knew her. Beyond their brief interactions during Feyre and Rhysand’s wedding, he had never really spoken to her. He knows Cassian’s drawn to her, in whatever way that is, and that the pair are like cat and mouse; a spell for disaster. And he knows that recently there’s been a development on the Nesta front with Cassian, the amount of times he’s driven out of state ‘to see his friends’ begging to raise some suspicious eyebrows.

But it was none of Azriel’s business unless Cassian decided it was so. Right now, Nesta’s face is impassive as she takes him in. Her heels put her at eye level with him, staring blankly before she steps back and holds the door wider, letting him in. 

"How is she?" He inquires as she gently shuts the front door. Her long fingers tighten for a moment on the handle before letting go and resting at her sides.

Her eyes flicker to the stairs, the stormy blue hue she shares with Feyre shuttering with uncertainty and hurt and grief. She hesitates before answering quietly. "Asleep, I think. I couldn't put her to sleep."

"Winnie?" He lowers his tone. The sister points a thumb towards the living room where the sound of a movie is playing. 

"Good," Nesta clasps her hands together. "She knows her mother needs rest. Feyre just left."

"Do you need help with anything?" he glances at the living room. “Winnie?”

"Winnie I can handle," Nesta admits. “Elain’s a whole other issue. I don’t know what to say. How to make her feel better. Can you assure her, or comfort her? Is there anything you can say?” 

He nods, glancing at the stairs. "I’ll see what I can do."

"Don't wake her," she instructs as he climbs the stairs.

He barely knocks on the door with his knuckle, quietly cracking it and peeking inside. "Elain?" He murmurs, so low he can barely hear himself. He catches sight of the lamp on the bedside on the other side of the bed to where she’s laying, her bed a messy disarray of ruffled duvets and pillows. 

Her bandaged head rolls back, the light falling on her face. "Hm? Oh... Az."

The tension in his shoulders escapes rapidly as his high-strung posture droops and he walks in. "Don’t move… I thought you'd be asleep."

He perches on her bed, carefully inching close and keeping his distance. Elain still tries to roll over and fails miserably, wincing as her face scrunches up in pain and her hands clench over a feather pillow

"Stay still," he moves closer carefully, taking off his shoes. "How are you?"

"I…” her voice fails her. Her eyes flicker over his face. “I thought you’d come see me.”

He brings his feet up and sits next to her. “I’m sorry,” he apologises. “Everything’s chaotic. We’re trying to catch him.”

Her lips quiver and he regrets mentioning it immediately.

“I was there,” Azriel tells her softly, brushing strands away from her jaw. “You weren’t awake yet. I was the first one Graysen called.”

“Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I just… missed you there. I wished you’d be there, tell me what to do.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, sincerely, holding her gaze. “I’m here now. How are you?”

“I can't sleep," Elain whispers, puffy eyelids flickering as her hoarse voice breaks off. "I can't."

He comes as close as he can without moving her, offering his scarred hand which she immediately clasps with her own shaking one. 

Azriel looks down at her then; bruised eyes, puffy face, bandaged head, exhausted and traumatised and feels himself soften with sympathy and a heartache echoing in his chest. His thumb smooths over her hand. She shakes slightly increasingly with every passing second, like she's trying to keep it in and contain it. 

"Can you hold me?" he can barely hear her. "Please."

Wordlessly, he shifts on the bed to slide down a little, and he slides an arm under her tender neck that flinches and the other lays over her pelvis, mindful of the wound in her lower abdomen. His hands close over her shoulder and hip. She presses her face into his chest, her trembles fading out as she inhales and exhales shakily. Azriel holds her quietly, her hand resting on his elbow and feels her scrunched up face smooth out against his shirt.

The only sign she's awake is the steady dampness growing over his pec, her occasional hard gulping and her erratic breathing.

"I can't breathe," she shares in a choked voice. "I can't breathe. Oh, I can't breathe-"

His eyes sting when she starts sobbing, her shoulders shaking under his hand. She cries rough chest-rattling sobs, wheezing and heaving for breath. Azriel tucks her head under his chin, screwing his eyes shut against the misery.

He presses his lips to her head, tightens his hold on her and pulls her closer. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry."

"It hurts so much I can't _breathe_."

His eyes water up. "I know." He does. Well enough. Extremely well. 

"I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to save them."

If there was ever a thing that has chipped his heart so, it is this. 

"But I did. And I couldn't save them."

"It's not your fault."

"I tried to disarm him. It didn't work."

"He's a fully grown predator with a machine gun. No one expects you to."

"I don't want to live that again. I don't want to go back."

And there- there he can offer no help at all, no consolation, no promises. 

She will have to go back to her school and she will have to go through emergency drills again and she might go through this ordeal again. And she might not survive it. 

He blinks away his tears, and kisses her head repeatedly. "I'm here for you, completely for you. I'll do anything to keep you safe. No one will harm you if I still breathe. We'll work our way through. We'll do everything we can."

She sobs. His heart cleaves in two. 

"Sleep," he tells her gently. "Listen to the rhythm in my chest. Just breathe. I'll hold you. It's okay. You're safe now. I'm holding you, you're safe. You can rest. I have you, Elain."

Azriel loosens his hold on her, letting her lay properly still on the bed and scoots down, laying down next to her on his side. She rests her head on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut with the cushioning that keeps her head in place. Her face looks a mess, red eyes and damp tears and runny nose. He wipes the salty moisture beneath the bruised eyes, brushes them away from her cheeks until he can't see any of them left.

His lips brush against her temple several times as his warmth seeps in. He hopes it's enough to help, he hopes his solid presence can ease her mind as he sets his head next to hers, forehead to her temple, lashes brushing the high arch of her cheeks and lips wording voicelessly "you're okay" against her skin. 

He watches her eyes steadily close and her hand still on his forearm, his fingers running soft soothing ministrations over her hair.

"I'm sorry," Azriel says in the dark when she's fast asleep. "I'm so sorry you can't feel safe at your job anymore."


End file.
